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Title: Memories
Author: C. F. Gordon Cumming
Release date: November 22, 2025 [eBook #77294]
Language: English
Original publication: Edinburgh: Blackwood, 1904
Credits: Richard Tonsing, Peter Becker, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMORIES ***
MEMORIES
[Illustration:
_Engr. by J.J. Washington 2^a_
_The beautiful Duchess of Argyll with her daughters Lady Augusta and
Lady Charlotte Campbell_
_By Angelica Kauffman._
]
MEMORIES
BY
C. F. GORDON CUMMING
AUTHOR OF ‘WANDERINGS IN CHINA,’ ‘AT HOME IN FIJI,’ ETC.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MCMIV
_All Rights reserved_
“_APOLOGIA._”
_I have mentioned many pleasant things that have been mine by
inheritance._
_But I have suffered much from one heritage of a very trying nature,
namely, the total inability to recognise general acquaintances when
meeting them unexpectedly; or even real friends, whom mentally I know
very well indeed, but quite fail to identify when we are suddenly
brought face to face._
_This grave social disability I inherit from my father, to whom the same
failing was a life-long trial. Moreover, it is one for which,
unfortunately, the sufferer does not always get sympathy from those whom
she has failed to recognise. I mention this chiefly in the hope that it
may meet the eye of some to whom I am told that I have thus occasionally
most unwittingly given offence._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTORY 1
CHAPTER I.
ALTYRE—DUNPHAIL—NUMEROUS KINSFOLK—CORNISH RELATIONS—GRANTS OF
GRANT—EPISCOPAL CHURCH 3
CHAPTER II.
THE ALTYRE GARDENS—HOME INTERESTS—OUR MOTHER’S DEATH—EARLY
INFLUENCES—THE MORAY FLOODS 34
CHAPTER III.
THE ALTYRE WOODS—BANKS OF THE FINDHORN—CULBYN SANDHILLS—COVESEA
CAVES 52
CHAPTER IV.
GORDONSTOUN—A GLORIOUS PLAYGROUND—THE GREAT PICTURE—THE
DUNGEONS—THE CHARTER-ROOM—OLD LETTERS—ECCLESIASTICAL
CENSURES—SUCCESSIVE LAIRDS—WINDOW-TAX 72
CHAPTER V.
MY ELDEST SISTER’S MARRIAGE—LIFE AT CRESSWELL—SCHOOLDAYS IN
LONDON—FIRST SEA VOYAGES—ROUALEYN’S RETURN FROM SOUTH AFRICA 102
CHAPTER VI.
MY FIRST LONDON SEASON—MY FATHER’S ACCIDENT—BEGINNING OF THE
CRIMEAN WAR—DEATH OF CAPTAIN CRESSWELL—DEATH OF MY FATHER—WE
LEAVE ALTYRE 122
CHAPTER VII.
LIFE IN NORTHUMBERLAND—MY SISTER ELEANORA’S WEDDING—ALNWICK CASTLE
IN 1855 AND 1892—SERIOUS ILLNESS—DEATH OF OSWIN AND SEYMOUR
CRESSWELL 140
CHAPTER VIII.
AT HOME ON SPEYSIDE—THE LAST CALL TO ARMS OF CLAN GRANT—A DOUBLE
FUNERAL—MACDOWAL GRANT OF ARNDILLY—ABERLOUR ORPHANAGE 159
CHAPTER IX.
THE “HOME-GOING” OF THREE BROTHERS 173
CHAPTER X.
MARRIAGES OF MY SISTER EMILIA AND MY BROTHER WILLIAM—WE LEAVE
SPEYSIDE AND SETTLE IN PERTHSHIRE—MY VISITS TO SKYE AND INDIA 191
CHAPTER XI.
RETURN TO ENGLAND—VISIT CORNWALL _EN ROUTE_ TO CEYLON FOR TWO
HAPPY YEARS 205
CHAPTER XII.
START FOR FIJI—LIFE IN AUSTRALIA AND NEW ZEALAND—DEATH OF THE REV.
F. AND MRS. LANGHAM 216
CHAPTER XIII.
CRUISE ON A FRENCH MAN-OF-WAR—TONGAN
ISLES—SAMOA—TAHITI—CALIFORNIA—JAPAN 227
CHAPTER XIV.
JAPANESE BURIAL-GROUNDS—CREMATION IN MANY LANDS—SACRED SCRIPTURE
WHEELS—BUDDHIST ROSARIES 245
CHAPTER XV.
MYTHOLOGICAL PLAYS—JAPANESE THEATRES—THE FORTY-SEVEN RÔNINS—FLOWER
FESTIVALS 270
CHAPTER XVI.
WAYSIDE SHRINES—THE FOX-GOD—OLD DRUGGISTS’ SHOPS—PUNISHING
REFRACTORY IDOLS 288
CHAPTER XVII.
ASCENT OF FUJIYAMA—ITS CRATER—VIEW FROM THE SUMMIT—TRIANGULAR
SHADOW—NUMEROUS VOLCANIC ERUPTIONS 307
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PEOPLE ENTERTAIN THE MIKADO AND GENERAL ULYSSES GRANT—RETURN
TO SAN FRANCISCO 334
CHAPTER XIX.
IN THE HAWAIIAN ISLES—SPIRITUALISM IN BOSTON—RETURN TO
BRITAIN—INVENTION OF THE SYSTEM OF EASY READING FOR BLIND AND
SIGHTED CHINESE 347
APPENDIX.
NOTE
A. THE WOLF OF BADENOCH 379
B. THE LOWLANDS OF MORAY 381
C. A LEGEND OF VANISHED WATERS 403
D. ELGIN CATHEDRAL AND THE CHURCH OF ST GILES 427
E. ANNE SEYMOUR CONWAY 442
F. CONDITIONAL IMMORTALITY 443
G. INTERCESSORY PRAYER 454
H. CHANGE IN SOCIAL DRINKING CUSTOMS 460
I. USE OF THE ROSARY 464
J. HAIR OFFERINGS 467
K. ON THE MEDICINAL USE OF ANIMALS IN CHINA AND BRITAIN 468
L. MAGAZINE ARTICLES 477
INDEX 481
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PHOTOGRAVURES.
PAGE
THE BEAUTIFUL DUCHESS OF ARGYLL, WITH HER DAUGHTERS LADY
AUGUSTA AND LADY CHARLOTTE CAMPBELL _Frontispiece_
By Angelica Kauffman.
LADY CHARLOTTE CAMPBELL 16
ELIZA MARIA, LADY GORDON-CUMMING OF ALTYRE 38
By Saunders about 1830.
ANDROMACHE BEWAILING THE DEATH OF HECTOR (THE BEAUTIFUL
DUCHESS OF HAMILTON AS HELEN OF TROY) 76
By Gavin Hamilton.
SIR WILLIAM GORDON GORDON-CUMMING 136
By Saunders about 1830.
ELIZABETH GUNNING, DUCHESS OF HAMILTON, AS HELEN OF TROY 158
By Gavin Hamilton.
ROUALEYN GEORGE GORDON CUMMING IN 1851 176
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
ALTYRE PRIOR TO 1854 52
THE BATHING-PLACE, COVESEA 58
HELL’S HOLE, HOPEMAN 62
THE SCULPTURE CAVE, COVESEA 68
GORDONSTOUN PRIOR TO 1900 72
THE ROUND SQUARE, GORDONSTOUN 74
A CORNER OF THE OLD ROOF, GORDONSTOUN 86
OLD DOVE-COT AT GORDONSTOUN 96
AN ATTIC WINDOW IN THE INNER COURT 100
THE OLD MICHAEL KIRK, 1866 188
MISS C. F. GORDON CUMMING IN 1887 196
SCRIPTURE WHEEL 254
SHRINE CONTAINING THE SCRIPTURE WHEEL AT NIKKO 258
FUJIYAMA FROM THE OTOMITONGA PASS 308
MISS C. F. GORDON CUMMING IN 1904 372
A CAVE AT COVESEA 402
THE PALACE AT SPYNIE, 1860 412
INTRODUCTORY
“THOSE WHO ON GLORIOUS ANCESTORS ENLARGE
PRODUCE THE DEBT—WE LOOK FOR THE DISCHARGE.”
_Old Chronicle._
In the rush and hurry of this twentieth century, the present generation
find themselves so fully occupied with their own contemporaries, that
for the most part they can take little or no interest, even in their own
immediate predecessors, still less in their progenitors of old
generations.
But we, who were born before life’s unsatisfying rush became so great,
still like to gather up the traditions of bygone years, and in fancy see
our own “forbears” as we know them to have been long ago.
As a daughter of the Chief of Clan Cumming, my home was, of course, at
Altyre, in Morayshire, _i.e._ at headquarters—a goodly heritage in
truth, and yet a mere fragment of the vast possessions of the Clan in
the days of its power. With regard to antiquity, it is said that the
Cummings of Altyre are directly descended from the Counts de Comyn who
were directly descended from Charlemagne. Robert, who was fifth in
descent, was created Earl of Northumberland by his cousin, William the
Conqueror. He was killed in Durham in January 1069. Besides broad lands
in Northumberland, his family held estates in Yorkshire and Wiltshire.
From him the old knights of Altyre (who were also Lords of Badenoch)
prove direct descent in the male line.
In the reign of Alexander III. the Comyns were also Earls of Buchan,
Earls of Menteith, Lords of Galloway, and Lords of Lochaber, owning vast
tracts of country. And besides these great barons, there were then
thirty landed knights in the Clan.
Of the Red Comyn who (while alone at prayer in Greyfriars Church in
Dumfries) was stabbed in sudden passion by Robert Bruce and murdered by
Kirkpatrick, it is recorded that sixty belted knights, with all their
vassals, were bound to follow his banner. But in that sacred and
unguarded hour, only his uncle, Robert Comyn of Altyre, was near, and
shared his fate.
The spelling of surnames in ancient documents is always liable to
variation, but probably no other has lent itself so largely to the fancy
of scribes. In one old charter of the Altyre family it is spelt in five
different ways. Cumeine, Chuimein, Commines, Cumyn, Comyn, Comin,
Coming, Cumin, Cummine, Cuming, and the modern form of Cumming, are
among these varieties.
The Clan is spoken of by various old writers as the most potent that
ever existed in Scotland; and a quaint old atlas, published in Amsterdam
in 1654 by Jean Blaeu, quotes a somewhat older Latin work by Sir Robert
Gordon of Stralloch, concerning
“Altyr, qui appartenoit à ceux de la maison de Cumines qui estoit, il y
a plus de trois cens ans, la plus riche, et la plus puissante de
l’Ecosse.”
How it came to pass that this powerful family should, so quickly after
the accession of Robert Bruce, have been reduced to the comparatively
small proportions of later years, is one of the unsolved mysteries of
Scottish history.
CHAPTER I
“SURELY GOODNESS AND MERCY HAVE FOLLOWED ME ALL THE DAYS OF MY
LIFE.”—Psalm xxiii. 6.
Altyre—Dunphail—Numerous Kinsfolk—Cornish Relations—Grants of
Grant—Episcopal Church.
Many a time I have been asked by friends who have found pleasure in
reading my notes of travel in divers countries to write a record of my
early home-life and of various matters of local interest.
Having rarely kept a journal, except when travelling, I felt that I had
insufficient materials from which to compile such a record; but after a
while I bethought me of one friend (Miss Murray of Polmaise), with whom
for more than forty years I had corresponded regularly, and as I had
preserved most of her letters, it was possible that she might have done
the same by mine. So to her I applied. The answer was, “Why did you not
write a month sooner? I have been setting my house in order, to minimise
trouble for my survivors, and have just burnt all my old letters,
including yours.” A few weeks later she entered the Larger Life, and for
a while the thought passed from me.
But now that I am rapidly nearing the appointed term of threescore years
and ten, and have far outlived thirteen of my fifteen brothers and
sisters—_i.e._ all save one of my brothers, and one half-sister—it seems
well to thread together such scattered details as may prove of interest
to some of my numerous friends, known and unknown, many of whom I can
never hope to meet face to face, but who have gladdened me by kind
letters, telling me how the records of my wanderings have beguiled weary
hours of suffering and weakness (one of these, which gave me special
pleasure, was from the author of the celebrated _Book of Nonsense_).
So for such sympathetic friends, I will now note some early memories of
those happy days—
“When we all were young together
And the earth was new to me.”
And if such notes are apt to appear egotistic, may I be forgiven, for
assuredly the records of the first fifty years of my life are those of
some one quite different from my present self in every respect, both of
personality and of surroundings. Indeed, I received a hint of this about
twenty-five years ago, when on my return from wandering in far
countries, I was told that an old family servant was anxious to see me
again after an interval of about fifteen years. I went to her house, and
was received with the cold glare of non-recognition. I said, “Don’t you
remember Miss Eka?” “Miss Eka,” she said beamingly, “Oh, fine do I mind
her, but,” doubtingly, “surely you are no her? Eh!! and ye WERE so
good-looking!” I like to treasure that tribute to a forgotten past.
Though I cannot say that I remember the 26th of May 1837, I do vividly
remember my father’s assuring me that early on that morning he had found
me in the heart of a fine large cabbage; so I greatly respected the tall
cabbages, from beneath which I retrieved deliciously sweet, small pears,
which fell from a large overhanging tree—one of the countless joys of
the most delightfully varied series of gardens that ever gladdened the
heart of happy children, and their elders of all ages.
In looking back and considering lives and characters, I often think how
little weight we give to the inestimable advantages which have enfolded
some of us from our birth to our grave. Ay, and long, long before our
birth, in the unspeakable blessing of healthy, well-conditioned
ancestors, who have transmitted to their descendants well-balanced minds
in healthy bodies, naturally cheerful dispositions, and many another
pleasant inheritance; all natural gifts which we accept as our
birthright, quite as a matter of course, yet the lack of which are to so
many life-long drawbacks for which all the world’s wealth cannot
compensate.
And when to these personal gifts there is added the charm of being born
and brought up in singularly lovely and delightful homes, nurtured in
simple, practical faith and reverence for all holy things, and enfolded
in the love of a large and attached home-circle, and the wider
friendship of very numerous kinsfolk, equally happy in their
surroundings, such an one is truly of the number of those “to whom much
is given.”
Such has been my own experience of life, always surrounded by good
influences.
My mother was the very embodiment of health and beauty, bodily and
mental. In physical stature, tall and stately, but above all, great in
soul and intellect. My father, Sir William Gordon-Cumming, Chief of Clan
Comyn or Cumming, was as splendid a Highlander as ever trod the heather,
only excelled in beauty and stature by his own second son, Roualeyn, who
was certainly the grandest and most beautiful human being I have ever
beheld.
My mother, Eliza Maria Campbell of Islay and Shawfield, had eight
brothers and sisters, twenty-one nephews and nieces, and ever so many
grand-nephews and nieces. My father had fifteen brothers and sisters (of
whom seven died young), twenty-nine nephews and nieces, and thirty-four
grand-nephews and nieces.
So I started in life with fifty first cousins, about twice as many
second and third cousins, and collaterals without number, for the family
tree had roots and branches ramifying in every direction; and as each
group centred around some more or less notable home, it followed that
England and Scotland were dotted over with points of family interest, in
those good old days when it was held that “blood was thicker than
water,” and kinship, however much diluted, was fully recognised.
Looking back to those numerous centres of cheery and hospitable welcome,
I realise that they now exist only in memory. At best the old friends
are replaced by a second or third generation, but too often the old
homes have changed hands; iniquitous death-duties have done their
malignant work in ruining the old landowners and dispersing the many
retainers who for generations had worked on the estates, in healthy,
peaceful country homes.
On the death of my grandfather, Sir Alexander Penrose Gordon Comyn, my
father, then a minor, succeeded to the great estates of Altyre and
Dallas, Gordonstoun, and Rose-isle, all in the county of Moray.
Although the Comyns have held Altyre for certainly seven
hundred—probably a thousand years—(it was Sir Robert Comyn of Altyre
who, on 10th February 1305, came to the rescue of his nephew Sir John
Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, commonly called the Red Comyn, when he was
stabbed by Bruce in the Greyfriars Church at Dumfries, and who was
himself slain by Kirkpatrick)—they seem to have lived about seven miles
from Altyre at the castle of Dallas (which for a while was called
Torchastle), on a bleak, uninviting moorland. The very ruins of this
have now disappeared, and a luxurious modern house has been built as a
shooting-lodge.
At what date the original house of Altyre was built is uncertain, but
contracts of marriage were there signed about 1581 and 1602 (the latter
between James Cuming and Margaret, sister to Symon, Lord Fraser of
Lovat). That old house was inhabited till A.D. 1789, when my
grandfather, finding it too small for his sixteen children, bought
Forres House, at Forres, from the Tullochs of Tannachie. On his death it
became the dower-house of his widow, who died there in 1832. For a few
years after their marriage, they had lived at Cothall, close to the
river Findhorn, a very pleasant situation in a green meadow enclosed by
old trees. Only a fragment of ruin now marks the spot.
My father’s intention always was to build an entirely new house on a
hill about a mile from old Altyre. At great cost, he levelled the summit
of the said hill, making an excellent carriage road, winding gently
round to the proposed site, from which there is a wide, beautiful view,
overlooking the Altyre and Darnaway woods, with a distant view of the
pretty little town of Forres and of Findhorn Bay, and across the Moray
Firth to the faint blue distant hills of Ross, Sutherland, Caithness,
and Cromarty. It is a delightful spot, known to this day as “the
Situation,” and for many years building thereon was the dream of my
father’s life.
Close to the Situation, another heathery, fir-crowned hill has from time
immemorial been known as the “Gallows Hill,” whereon any one who had the
misfortune to incur the wrath of the knights of Altyre was ruthlessly
hanged in the “good old days,” when it is related of one awe-stricken
wife that she urged her unwilling husband to go quietly to his doom and
“dinna anger the laird.”
As it was not convenient to begin at once building on the new site, my
father and mother decided that for a while they would continue to live
in the old house; and then began the laying out of those great,
beautiful gardens and shrubberies of which comparatively little now
remains—sacrificed to the changing taste of successive generations. They
also laid out many miles of romantic woodland paths, which made the
whole place a dream of delight. And so they became more and more
disinclined to leave the home they had made so fascinating; and as their
family increased they occasionally added a few rooms to the old place,
which thus gradually developed into a picturesque patchwork, covered
with climbing roses, honeysuckle, and jessamines, and beloved by the
happy children, to whom it was indeed an earthly paradise, the profusion
of flowering shrubs so lavishly planted in every direction adding their
fragrance to that of the sweet woods.
Moreover, in those halcyon days, we were allowed to breathe the pure air
as God created it for us, unpolluted by the fumes of tobacco, which
assuredly can have no place in any paradise—certainly not in the
Celestial! Only as years went on did my brothers yield to the new
temptation, and venture to smoke a pipe in the kitchen when all the
household were safe in bed. As to smoking-rooms, they were not invented
in any houses within our ken.
Among the many incongruities in that dear old home, not the least was
the importation from abroad of three large fixed baths, which, with an
abundant supply of hot and cold water ready to hand, were a luxury by no
means common eighty years ago.
But far more attractive to the younger generation was a wooden
enclosure, built across a pool in a delightful rivulet on the further
side of the lawn, which, by means of a sluice, could be deepened at
pleasure; and there we could bathe to our hearts’ content in the
clearest and softest brown water, with trees and sky overhead, only one
corner being roofed as protection in case of rain.
All the water-supply for washing purposes came from one of these brown
rivers, and sometimes after heavy rain its colour was so dark as greatly
to surprise guests from the south, unused to peat regions; but all
confessed that no crystal streams could yield water so delightfully
soft.
Though the entailed lands necessarily passed to my father, Sir
Alexander’s love centred on his second son, Charles Lennox, to whom he
left the lovely estate of Dunphail, on the romantic banks of the river
Devie, just above its junction with the Findhorn, which is by far the
loveliest river in Scotland, and which divides the fascinating woods of
Altyre from those of Darnaway Castle, one of the Earl of Moray’s many
estates. Dunphail, which had formerly belonged to the Cummings, had
fallen into other hands. Sir Alexander bought it back for his favourite
son.
Of all legends of the north, none is more gruesome than that which tells
how, about the year 1340, Randolph Stuart (who had been created Earl of
Moray by his uncle, King Robert Bruce) besieged Alexander de Comyn, the
old knight of Dunphail, and five of his six sons in their strong castle.
For long they held out, till at length Randolph discovered that night
after night the eldest son, Alastair Bhan (_i.e._ the fair), contrived
to bring them food.
Soon he tracked him to his hiding-place, Slaginnan, a well-concealed
cave in a thickly wooded ravine beside the river Devie. His followers
closed the entrance to the cave with piles of heather and brushwood, and
to his prayer to be allowed to come out and die “like a man,” fighting
for life, they replied, “No, you shall die like a fox,” and so they
fired the brushwood and smoked him to death. Then they cut off his head
with its masses of golden hair, and threw it over the castle wall to the
unhappy father, crying “There is beef to your bannocks.”
Starvation soon compelled surrender, and the besiegers ruthlessly
beheaded all their prisoners, carrying off the heads as trophies, but
burying the seven headless bodies in one grave at the foot of the castle
rock; a grave always known as that of the Seven Headless Comyns. It was
opened in the last century, I believe, by order of Major Cumming-Bruce,
and the truth of the story was fully confirmed.
This Randolph Stuart was very nearly akin to that other miscreant,
Alexander Stuart, known as the “Wolf of Badenoch,” son of King Robert
II., who bestowed on him the lordship and lands of Buchan and of
Badenoch, wrested from the Comyns, and who was distinguished only for
his savage brutality. In the year 1390 he swooped down from his castle
of Lochindorb and burnt first the town and church of Torres, and a month
later did likewise by the stately cathedral of Elgin, the parish church
of St. Giles, and other ecclesiastical buildings, as well as a great
part of that city.
I feel bound to mention this detail, because I have so often heard it
asserted that the cruel “Wolf” was a Comyn, whereas our forbears were
then in the position of the unjustly maligned lamb.[1]
Many and glad were the happy weeks we so often spent among the lovely
ferny and birch-clad glades and glens on every side of beautiful
Dunphail, which to us was just as much home as Altyre itself. These
homes were connected not only by a first-rate carriage road, but by
miles of skilfully led footpaths along the beautiful, craggy banks of
the Findhorn, the Devie, and the Dorbach, through the estates of Altyre,
Logie, and Relugas, all the estates of Cumming cousins,[2] who were of
one heart and one mind in all that tended to open up their lovely
estates, and make their beauty accessible to themselves and others.
But as both my father and his brother had a curious talent for
instinctively hitting on the very best line for constructing roads and
footpaths through dense and well-nigh untrodden brushwood, the task was
altogether left to them, resulting in the excellent paths, most of which
remain to this day as their abiding memorial. Others (extending for
miles up the Altyre burn—“by the sweet burnside”—and through one
specially lovely glade known as “the Sanctuary,” where stately silver
pines cast their cool, deep shade over a carpet of greenest moss) were
demolished when the ruthless railway was led down that glen, and many
more have now been closed, but enough remain to earn the gratitude of
successive generations.
Perhaps the loveliest, and certainly the most unique stretch of
river-hewn rock, is the half mile of the Findhorn on the estate of
Relugas, just above its junction with the Devie, where at one point the
whole volume of brown waters rushes through a cleft so deep and narrow,
that on one occasion when Randolph, Earl of Moray, was closely pursued
by foes, he actually leaped from crag to crag and so escaped. This spot,
known as “Randolph’s Leap,” is naturally the chief attraction to
visitors who drive from afar to carry to more prosaic homes a memory of
the dreams of beauty, which by the generosity of all the lairds in the
glen have for the last three generations been made so easy of access.
Very sad to say, the continuity of these beautiful paths has recently
been destroyed through the selfish policy of the late non-resident
proprietrix of this most fascinating estate. In order to make her own
walks more attractive to summer tenants, by ensuring their own privacy
while taking unrestricted enjoyment of all walks and drives on the
neighbouring estates, she for some years past only allowed the public
access to this specially attractive half mile on one day of the week,
while quite excluding them from other lovely river-paths. So that the
most interesting point on the beautiful Findhorn is now the one blot;
which sends many away bitterly disappointed, because their only
opportunity (perhaps in a lifetime) of visiting the district (or of
revisiting the haunts of their youth) was not on the day so arbitrarily
fixed. Remonstrances and representations on this subject have hitherto
proved all in vain.
At the time when I can first remember lovely Relugas, it was the scene
of a curious instance of a man gaining his heart’s desire. Young Mr.
Mackilligan started from Elgin to carve his fortune in Ceylon, then
comparatively unknown to planters. As he left Scotland, he confided to a
friend that his ideal of all possible bliss would be to own Relugas
(then the property of Sir Thomas Dick Lauder), and to be the husband of
Eliza Marquis, a very handsome and winsome girl.
Strange to say, on his return, having made his pile, he found that
Relugas was for sale, and that he was still in time to woo and win the
maiden. Thus was his double ideal fulfilled. But alas! his health was
shattered, and his wife proved equally delicate, so it was truly
pathetic to visit them, and find each confined to a sofa, only able to
enjoy the beauty which they could see from the windows.
After his death, his widow deemed it best for her children to sell the
place, which was bought by the George Robert Smiths, who proved the
kindest of neighbours. To them a special attraction was the near
neighbourhood of Dunphail (only a mile by a lovely river path) the home
of their dear friends, the Cumming-Bruces.
My uncle, Charles Lennox Cumming, had married Mary, the grand-daughter
and heiress of Bruce the famous Abyssinian traveller, from whom she
inherited the estate of Kinnaird near Falkirk, and the old house
containing many valuable sketches and all manner of travel treasures
from Abyssinia, the Hawaiian Islands, and other regions, to visit which,
in his days, had been a matter worthy indeed of a great explorer. Of
course the heiress retained her own name, hence the family of
Cumming-Bruce.
Even in the beginning of the nineteenth century, the difficulties of
travel were still so great that my Uncle Charles was deemed quite a hero
on his return from wanderings in Turkey, Greece, and Italy. To the
latter he took his bride—a honeymoon commemorated by the Italian
character of the picturesque house which they built at Dunphail on their
return, also of the little Episcopal Church in Forres. The very
ornamental farm buildings at Altyre were a similar tribute to Italy by
my father.
To students of old Scottish story, it is worthy of note that this was
the very first occasion since the murder of our ancestor the Red Comyn
by King Robert Bruce that the two clans had intermarried. Curiously
enough, the combination was repeated in the next generation, their only
child, Elma Cumming-Bruce, having married James Bruce, Earl of Elgin.
She died in Jamaica, leaving one infant, Lady Elma Bruce, who inherited
the estates of her grandparents. She married Lord Thurlow, but her
children decided to bear their clan names. Her eldest son, “Fritz”
Cumming-Bruce, was killed when gallantly leading his 42nd Highlanders in
the deadly charge at Magersfontein, and a younger son, Sigurd, died of
enteric almost at the same time.
The eldest brother now surviving is the Rev. Charles Cumming-Bruce, who
is establishing much-needed Seamen’s Institutes at many points between
Vancouver and Portland (Oregon), where he ministers to seamen of many
nationalities and tries to protect them against sharpers of the worst
type. We may be excused a little pardonable pride in him and his good
work as, so far as we can trace, he is the only relation bearing our
name who in recent centuries has entered holy orders. In fact two Forbes
and two Dunbar cousins are apparently our only ecclesiastical
representatives in any branch of the family.
But it is satisfactory to know that twelve hundred years ago Cumming the
Fair held the Bishopric of the Isles, as seventh bishop of Iona; and in
his memory the Highlanders still call Fort Augustus on Loch Ness “Kil
Chuimein,” “the Cell of the Cumming.” Now the grey fort has in its turn
been demolished, to be replaced by St. Benedict’s Abbey, and a large
Benedictine monastery.
To return to the beginning of the nineteenth century. It was not only
continental travel which was difficult in those days. Many a time have I
heard my father describe his early experiences of being sent from
Morayshire to England and back for his holidays by a slow sailing-smack,
a mode of transit which, besides being wretchedly uncomfortable, cut
largely into the holidays; as in foul weather the voyage to London might
take three weeks or even four. When Sir Robert Gordon brought his family
from London to Gordonstoun, the voyage took them forty days. It was not
till 1822 that the first steamer of any importance appeared in the Moray
Firth, and several years later ere sufficient trade was developed to
make it worth while to establish a weekly steamer between Inverness and
Leith, calling at intermediate ports.
In common with several of our kinsfolk, my grandfather availed himself
of his right to send my father to be educated at Winchester College,
being “Founder’s kin” to William of Wykeham. Hence our early familiarity
with the good old Wykeham motto, “Manners maketh man,” and with that
curious old picture, a life-sized copy of which hung in the kitchen at
Altyre, showing the “Trusty Servant,” with the swift feet of the deer,
the long ears of the patient ass, the snout of a pig “not nice in diet,”
and the padlocked mouth, which proved how safe in his keeping were his
master’s secrets.
In their early days my father and his brother Charles travelled together
in Italy, where the handsome Highland dress, which the former always
wore in the evenings, attracted much admiration and curiosity. On one
occasion he observed that two Italian ladies, who were sitting beside
him, were deep in the discussion of some question, and that his
neighbour edged nearer and nearer to him. At last a gentle finger
suddenly touched his knee, and its owner rapidly retreated with an
expression of disgust, exclaiming to her companion, _Carne da vero!_[3]
The gay Cumming tartan of scarlet and bright green, crossed with narrow
lines of black and white, has generally been reserved by the men of our
family for evening wear, the dark green and purple, with narrow yellow
stripe, of the Gordons being preferable for day wear. Of course, as
chief of the Clan, my father wore the symbolic three eagle’s feathers in
his broad blue bonnet.
Of our two Clan badges, the Gordon evergreen ivy leaf, with its pretty
motto, _Je meurs où je m’attache_, has naturally been more popular than
the saugh, or broad-leafed deciduous willow, known in Scottish song as
“the frush” _i.e._ brittle saugh-wand. Our family mottoes, _Sans
crainte_ of the Gordons, and _Courage_ of the Cummings, have undoubtedly
proved inspirations.
It was in Italy that the brothers first made the acquaintance of my
beautiful grandmother, Lady Charlotte Campbell of Islay, and her lovely
daughters.
Here I must record a curious detail of fortune-telling. Shortly before
that memorable meeting, Lady Charlotte and some of her daughters visited
an Italian lady, who expressed a wish to tell Eliza’s fortune. The girl
objected, but the lady insisted. She told them that political troubles
were even then brewing, and that within a few days complications would
arise which would make their position in Florence very uncomfortable.
But just in the hour of need two fair-haired Scotsmen would come to
their rescue, and that she would marry the elder of the two.
Strange to say, all came about exactly as the lady foretold. Sir William
and his brother did arrive in Italy just when political complications
had arisen, and hearing that some of their countrywomen were in
difficulties, they at once went to offer themselves as their escort to
Switzerland. And so it came to pass that in September 1815, in the
little Church at Zurick, Eliza Maria Campbell, aged seventeen, became
Lady Comyn-Gordon, for so the order of the double surname was then
arranged, and the old spelling was not finally given up till later.[4]
My mother’s sisters, as also her two brothers, were not long in
following her example. BEAUJOLAIS (so called after the Comte de
Beaujolais,[5] who was a special friend of Lady Charlotte) married the
Earl of Charleville. JULIA married Mr. Langford Brooke, of the Mere in
Cheshire. (She had the anguish of seeing him drowned before her windows
while skating on his own lake.) EMMA married William Russell, son of
that Lord William who was murdered by his own valet, Courvoisier.
CONSTANCE ADELAIDE married Lord Arthur Lennox. (Her daughter Constance
married Sir George Russell of Swallowfield.)
It was of ELEANORA, the loveliest of all, that Harriet, Countess
Granville (see her _Memoirs_) wrote: “She is decidedly the girl I should
prefer Hartington’s marrying. She is beautiful, and _dans le meilleur
genre_, with the sweetest manners I ever met with. She is really quite
enchanting.”... She goes on to speak of her own little Granville as “a
delightful little companion, so full of natural tact and instinctive
civility, which prevents his ever being _de trop_.”
Curiously enough, when the little son grew up, he was equally attracted
by Eleanora’s beautiful niece Castalia, daughter of Uncle Walter, and
they filled the same rôle of ambassador and ambassadress as his parents
had done before him.
Aunt Eleanora was my mother’s favourite sister, and it was in the pretty
sitting-room at Altyre that, in 1819, she was married to the Earl of
Uxbridge. Her life was very brief, and in an album of my mother’s I find
the verse quoted as relating to her:—
“Elle était de ce monde où les plus belles choses
Out le pire destin
Et Rose, elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses,
L’espace d’un matin.”
Her son succeeded his father as Marquis of Anglesea; and of her
beautiful daughters, Ellen married a son of Sir Sandford Graham, and
Constance married the Earl of Winchelsea.
[Illustration:
_Emery Walker. ph. sc._
_Lady Charlotte Campbell._
]
Of the brothers, WALTER FREDERICK, owner of Islay and Shawfield, married
his own first cousin, Lady Ellinor Charteris, who died, leaving only one
son, John Francis, the well-beloved Ian, whose home, Niddry Lodge, near
London, was for so many years the central gathering-point, not only for
all the family, but for all sorts and conditions of men with whom his
great mind found congenial interests in all the countries where he
wandered, sketching and studying geological and other problems. His book
on the action of _Fire and Frost_ made a considerable mark, as did also
his _Tales of the West Highlands_, four volumes of old Celtic legends
collected by himself from Highlanders and Islanders, whose hearts opened
wide at the sound of their own Gaelic tongue, a birthright which
likewise proved a key to sympathy wherever the old Celtic races still
survive.
Uncle Walter married secondly Katharine, daughter of Lady Elizabeth
Cole, a sister of Lord Derby. She had one son, Walter, and four
daughters, Augusta, Eila, Violet, and Castalia, who married
respectively, Mr. Bromley-Davenport, Sir Kenneth Mackenzie of Gairloch,
Henry West, and Earl Granville.
Alas! two bitter sorrows early overshadowed the life of this dear aunt.
First when Uncle Walter discovered that the princely fortune, which had
been deemed inexhaustible, had, in some totally unaccountable manner,
melted away in the hands of his agents, and that when, in the terrible
years of famine caused by the potato-blight, he was supplying his
starving islanders on Islay with shiploads of grain imported from
America, it was being paid for with borrowed money. (The islanders, of
whom to-day there are only seven thousand, then numbered twenty
thousand.)
It is said that any man of business would have put the whole matter into
the hands of trustees, who could have put all right in two or three
years. But his only instinct (in which Ian implicitly agreed) was at
once to get rid of the disgrace of being in debt to any one, and so all
the properties were at once thrown on the market. No sooner were they
sold than minerals were discovered on the estate of Shawfield, which
would have cleared off all deficits, and which have built up the great
wealth of the Whites, as represented by Lord Overtoun.
The terrible sorrow of leaving beloved Islay was doubtless in a great
measure responsible for the still greater loss which shortly
followed—namely, that of sight. Doubtless there had been some
constitutional weakness latent, but inability to restrain the bitter
tears that would keep on flowing, even more in sympathy for her adored
husband than for her own great sorrow, was apparently the immediate
cause of this terrible loss, which for fifty long years threw the shadow
of darkest night over one hitherto so joyous and so blest.
Ere long came the crowning sorrow, when her noble husband was taken from
her; but then as a pillar of strength came the life-long devotion of her
step-son, who thenceforth made it the chief concern of his life in every
way to minister to her in her darkened lot, and to be at once father and
brother to her children—children of whose beauty she heard on every
side, but whom she was never to see.
In all my memories none are more pathetic than those of delightful
summer afternoons in the pleasant shady garden at Niddry Lodge, with all
her own strikingly handsome family and their husbands gathered round
her, sometimes to watch a game of chess with Lord Granville, which was
her special delight, and as she turned her large grey eyes on one or
other of us, and made some comment concerning friends whom she had
recently “seen” and how they looked, it was difficult to realise that to
her all was total darkness.
Ere she once more entered into Light, one great joy was granted to her
in the form of a true romance of the nineteenth century. Naturally the
very name of Mr. Morrison—the purchaser of her beloved island home—was
to her abhorrent. But once again, as in the days of the Capulets and
Montagues, deepest love was born of her only hate. A third generation
grew up, and Hugh Morrison wooed and won the love of Lady Mary
Leveson-Gower; and when he brought sweet Mary Morrison to her ancestral
home on Islay, the joy of the Islanders at this return of the beloved
old race was unbounded.
Of my mother’s other brother JOHN and his wife, I have no recollection,
only that they left a son, Walter, and a bright, pretty daughter, Edith,
who married Mr. Callander of Ardkinglas, near Inveraray, and died
leaving two sons.
Now I must go back to the previous generation to tell of the mother of
all these beautiful sons and daughters, namely my grandmother, LADY
CHARLOTTE CAMPBELL. She lived till I was quite grown up, and even in old
age she was stately and fair to see, notwithstanding the lamentably free
use of red and white paint. Even in very advanced years she always sat
rigidly upright, and sorely disapproved of the lounging habits of the
younger generations, which she described as “sitting on their spines”—a
most undignified position.
Latterly she was known to the world as Lady Charlotte Bury, having
unfortunately contracted a second marriage with the Rev. Edward Bury,
which was in no way conducive to her happiness. Amongst other
iniquities, he stole and sold to a publisher her private journals, kept
during the years when she was the faithful attendant of Queen Caroline.
She never discovered the theft till they appeared in print as the _Diary
of a Lady of Quality_. The book was promptly suppressed “by authority,”
and the social annoyances which ensued were painful to a degree.
By her second marriage she had happily only one daughter, Blanche, who
married Mr. Lyon, and died childless.
In her old age, Lady Charlotte always kept a lovely portrait of herself
standing on an easel beside her, of which the dear old lady used
complacently to say, “It is the only picture that ever did me justice!”
It was just head and shoulders, with the strikingly picturesque
head-dress which so well became her, namely a band of black velvet above
her fair hair, and above that, fluffy lace, surmounted by a tall pale
pink or blue satin cap. I think it was by Sant, and that it was in
crayon. (One such remains in the family, but not the one of which I
speak.) Shortly before her death it disappeared, and none of the family
have ever been able to trace it. Possibly some reader of these pages may
be able to afford a clue to its fate.
She died on Easter Day (31st March) 1861, the same month in which my
father’s sister Sophia, “Saint Cecilia,” received her promotion to the
Celestial Choir.
Lady Charlotte was a daughter of John, fifth Duke of Argyll, who, in
1759, married Elizabeth, the lovely young widow of the sixth Duke of
Hamilton, one of the three beautiful Miss Gunnings, whose combined
loveliness set first Dublin and then London crazy.[6]
MARIA married the Earl of Coventry, and KITTY, who, from their
portraits, must have been the loveliest of all, preferred a quiet
country life, and married Mr. Travers.
ELIZABETH (or, as she was generally called, “Betty”) was as winsome as
she was fair. Curiously enough, her two sons by each marriage succeeded
to their respective fathers, so that she had the unique distinction of
having been wife of two dukes and mother of four! Her only daughter by
the first marriage, Lady Betty, married the Earl of Derby, and of her
Campbell daughters, Lady Augusta married General Clavering, and Lady
Charlotte married “Beautiful” Jack Campbell of Shawfield and Islay.
He was one of a family of thirteen, of whom MARGARET married the Earl of
Wemyss; GLENCAIRN (or “Aunt Glen,” as she was called by my older
sisters) married Mr. Carter; HAMILTON married Lord Belhaven (for many
years they acted the part of King and Queen at Holyrood at the General
Assembly of the Church of Scotland); MARY married Lord Ruthven; KATE
married Sir Charles Jenkinson (their daughters Ellen, Catherine and
Georgiana married respectively the Duke de Montebello, Mr. Guinness and
Mr. Nugent); ELIZABETH married Mr. Threipland, and HARRIET married Mr.
Hamilton of Gilkerscleuch, whose daughter Ellinor married Hamilton of
Dalzell.
Of all these, the one who held the largest share in my personal
affection was Mary, Lady Ruthven, whose talent for water-colour
painting, for music, and her intense appreciation of everything good and
beautiful, together with her large-hearted welcome for a wide circle of
friends, made a visit to her favourite home at old Winton Castle in East
Lothian (one of her own beautiful properties) an ever-recurring
pleasure. Some of her own best pictures were of temples in Greece, where
she had travelled much in her early married days, about the year 1819,
when such travel was a great event.
Lord Ruthven died in his prime, but she lived to the great age of
ninety-six; and very pathetic it was to see this aged lady every night
place beneath her pillow a beautifully painted miniature of a handsome
young man, the love of her youth. In the picturesque old churchyard at
Winton is the tall Celtic cross which she erected to his memory, bearing
for inscription these words from Dan. X. 19: “O man, greatly beloved,
peace be unto thee.”
She was the owner of large mining property, and took the keenest
interest in personally visiting the families of her villages with
creature comforts for the sick and sympathy for all. As years advanced,
she was sorely tried by ever-increasing blindness and deafness, while
her heart and mind were active as ever, and longing for information on
the politics and literature of the day. In order in some measure to
satisfy these cravings, her butler had every morning to read a large
part of _The Times_ in a stentorian voice, and in the afternoon one of
the footmen read lighter literature. Hence her anxiety to be told of
“good novels, which will not hurt John’s morals.” But she used to
complain pathetically that invariably when they reached the most
interesting point, John would close the book and say, “I must stop now,
my lady, the butler wants me to clean the silver”—the poor man’s lungs
being probably exhausted.
But the most touching incident of the day was the invariable assembling
of the large household for family worship, when in a deeply reverent,
and perfectly modulated voice, she would recite a chapter of the Bible,
of which she knew more than fifty chapters and a great many Psalms by
memory, and then offer prayer and praise from the depths of her own
heart. Those family prayers were very real.
Very impressive also to me was the unfailing regularity with which the
dear old lady invariably marched off to the parish church. If her guests
excused themselves on the score of weather, she would say to me, “My
dear, _we_ are not made of sugar, and we are not made of salt, so we
will go.” And go we did.
I referred to the beautiful modulation of her voice in prayer or in
reciting the Scriptures, or poems. Unfortunately as deafness increased,
she lost all control of voice in ordinary conversation, and often her
newly introduced young guests have been electrified by her deeply
resonant tones telling some one else what an excellent _parti_ the young
man or the heiress was, and how suitable a match he or she would be for
the other!
But such little details as these were but the infirmities of extreme old
age of one who, from her birth in 1789 to her death in 1885, lived under
four sovereigns, taking a keen interest in all political and national
events, from the days of Pitt, and the battle of Waterloo; who had been
the chosen friend of Sir Walter Scott, and frequently his guest at
Abbotsford; who was intimately acquainted with Rogers and Thomas Moore,
Wilson, Lockhart, and a multitude of other poets and literary men,
including Byron, and most of the leading artists of that long period.
Of my grandfather’s brothers, ROBERT inherited the estates of Skipness,
and COLIN those of Ard Patrick. WALTER was a naval officer, father of
Lady Chetwynd and Lady Trevelyan.
Robert’s son Walter, who was quite an ideal Highlander, wrote various
capital books on Indian sport, _My Indian Diary_ and _The Old Forest
Ranger_, by which name he himself came to be generally called. His
eldest daughter, Constance, married Macneal of Ugadale, whose delightful
home in the Mull of Cantyre overlooks the most magnificent waves and
most beautiful sands and golf-links to be found in Scotland.[7]
The two youngest sons, whom I vividly remember as merry, sunny-haired
mites, chasing the butterflies among tall lilies and roses in the old
garden, are now the Rev. Archibald Campbell, Bishop of Glasgow, and the
Rev. Alan Campbell, Episcopal clergyman at Callander. The latter, alas!
became blind soon after his ordination, but seems to have found that
sore affliction no great hindrance to the success of his ministerial
work, so that for several years (ably seconded by his widowed sister,
Mrs. David Ricardo) he continued his work among rough dock labourers on
the Thames, with whom his influence seemed to be enhanced by his sore
affliction.
The Campbells of Ard Patrick also represent an extensive branch of our
kinsfolk—the one who has entered most largely into our lives being
Ellinor, who married Michael Hughes, who for many years rented Huntly
Lodge, and made it a centre of hospitality so long as they lived.
Almost all these thirteen grand-uncles and grand-aunts married, and the
majority left children, and children’s children, to further extend the
family connections.
These were equally numerous on my father’s side, his GRANDFATHER,
ALEXANDER CUMMING or Cumyn, having in most romantic fashion, when
semi-shipwrecked off the coast of Cornwall, wooed and won GRACE PEARCE,
niece and heiress of John Penrose of Penrose, who was the last heir male
of that ancient family. On the lovely estate of Penrose close to
Helston, the young couple abode; and in the old charter-room at
Gordonstoun are preserved some quaint letters concerning Cornish
customs,[8] especially the value of the many wrecks, which were commonly
spoken of as God’s blessings. In the same old charter-room there is also
a brief memoir of his father by the eldest son, Alexander Penrose, in
which he tells of his father’s start in life as a midshipman on board
H.M.S. _Trafford_, whence he was transferred to H.M.S. _Kent_, and sent
to the West Indies.
On the voyage he deemed himself insulted by a lieutenant, so on arriving
at Port Royal in Jamaica he called him out, wounded and disarmed him.
But as such a breach of discipline as a middy fighting a lieutenant
would have made his life in the navy a burden, he resigned his naval
career, and enlisted as a grenadier in Harrison’s Regiment, till he was
able to buy his commission, and distinguished himself at the storming of
Boccachica.
At Jamaica, he was stricken with fever; thence the regiment was ordered
to Ostend, which was then held by the Austrians and besieged by the
French. The siege lasted for three years!
After a brief interval at Portsmouth, the regiment was ordered to
Ireland in transports, but these were compelled by stress of weather to
seek refuge at Falmouth, where all the regiment was disembarked and
remained in cantonments for some time till the damaged ships could be
repaired.
At a ball in Falmouth, the young heiress of Penrose graciously signified
her willingness to dance with any of these shipwrecked officers with the
exception of “that ugly Scotchman,” Captain Cumyn, who, however, was not
long in finding favour with the lady; and being for some time encamped
at Penrhyn, he made such good use of his opportunities, that when the
regiment again set sail for Ireland, Captain Cumyn and his bride were
happily settled at Penrose.
In due time they were blessed with six sons and three daughters, most of
whom married county neighbours. Hence our kinship with the Rashleighs,
Veales of Trevayler, Fitz-Geralds, and Quickes of Newton St. Cyres.
Alexander survived his wife, and died at Penrose in 1761. That estate
was subsequently sold to make provision for the eight younger children,
apparently in total ignorance of the valuable tin mines on the estate,
which are said to have sometimes yielded more in one year than the total
price paid for the whole property.
Their eldest son, SIR ALEXANDER PENROSE COMYN, who was born at Helston
in May 1749, assumed the name of GORDON, when, on the death of Sir
William Gordon of Gordonstoun, and in right of his ancestress, Dame Lucy
Gordon, he succeeded to that property[9] with its delightfully quaint
old house, a mile from the sea, and from the enchanting coast of broad
yellow sands stretching on either side of sandstone cliffs and large
caves of very varied form, which extend along the shore for a couple of
miles, forming at low water the most fascinating rock scenery I know of
in Britain or elsewhere, and a truly entrancing playground.
Gordonstoun is only sixteen miles from Altyre, but is in every respect
as complete a contrast as could well be imagined: the one a simple old
Scotch house, with patchwork additions, all embowered in greenery and
blossom, and the other a stern, uncompromising, large grey mansion, with
steep-pitched roofs, slabbed with grey and lichened stone, and turrets
at all corners. Only when inside does the explorer discover traces of
the successive generations which have produced it—the extraordinary
dungeons, the secret stairs and quaint hiding-places in the thickness of
the walls, behind cupboards, or under floors. Surely no children ever
possessed more delightful homes!
My grandfather did not go far afield in search of a bride. At Castle
Grant, which had for at least eight hundred years been the headquarters
of the Chiefs of Clan Grant, he found his bride HELEN GRANT OF GRANT,
one of the six daughters of Sir Ludovick Grant of Grant by Lady Margaret
Ogilvie-Grant, eldest daughter of James, Earl of Findlater and Seafield.
Sir Ludovick was a fine specimen of the true Highland chief of the best
type, and while not neglecting the estates, he represented the County of
Elgin as M.P. for twenty years, from 1741 to 1761. He died at Castle
Grant 18th March 1773.
His only son succeeded as Sir James, whose sons, Lewis and Francis
William, successively became Earls of Findlater and Seafield. Thus “Dame
Helen”—my grandmother—was aunt to the fifth and sixth, and grand-aunt or
great-grand-aunt to the seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh
earls. Was ever succession so rapid in any other family?
Of my five grand-aunts, Hope Grant married Dr. Waddilove, Dean of Ripon,
and Penuel married Henry Mackenzie, author of _The Man of Feeling_, a
volume very much admired in its day. One of their sons, John Henry, was
an eminent lawyer, and was raised to the bench as Lord Mackenzie,
generally called “of Belmont” to distinguish him from two later law
lords, who each took the title of Lord Mackenzie.
He married the Honourable Helen Anne Mackenzie of Seaforth.
Sir Alexander and Dame Helen had fourteen children besides MY FATHER,
and Uncle CHARLES CUMMING-BRUCE. Their Daughter HELEN PENUEL married Sir
Archibald Dunbar of Northfield and Duffus; the latter, which is the
family home, being only one mile from Gordonstoun, the Dunbars have ever
been our very closest kinsfolk. That couple were blessed with ten
children, one of whom married Mackintosh of Raigmore, near Inverness,
and became the mother of some of our dearest relations.
Her eldest son Eneas, generally known in our family as “the Beloved,”
was the very incarnation of genial hospitality, and many a joyous
gathering have we all held under his elastic roof, especially at the
annual great Highland meeting every September. Never was the fine old
proverb
“Where there is heart-room
There is hearth-room,”
better illustrated, for when the utmost possibilities of packing seemed
to have been attained, there was always some corner found for an extra
guest.
He married a sister of Sir Robert Menzies of Menzies, and thus began our
life-long close intimacy with Perthshire, and especially with Sir
Robert’s beautiful wife, _née_ Annie Alston Stewart, and her sisters,
two of whom owned Killiecrankie Cottage, overlooking the famous Pass.
Many a happy week have I spent in that exquisite nest, and at Urrard on
the opposite bank of the Garry.
Another of Aunt Helen Dunbar’s daughters married Rawdon Clavering, and
another, Mr. Warden.
The eldest and third sons, Sir Archibald and Edward, lived till January
1898, when they passed away within a few days of one another, Sir
Archibald in his ninety-fifth, and Edward in his eighty-first year.
Then we were all electrified when the newspapers informed us that the
cousin whom we had always distinguished as “Young Archie” was actually
verging on threescore years and ten! His mother was Keith Alicia Ramsay
of Barnton, and his wife was Isabella Eyre of Welford Park. His father
married, secondly, Sophia Orred of Tranmere Hall, in Cheshire, and in
1890 they celebrated their golden wedding in the same year as the
younger couple celebrated their silver wedding.
Sir Archibald, senior, was always a fragile invalid, in pathetic
contrast with my stalwart brothers. But he was wont to say, “A glass box
will last as long as an iron one, if you take care of it.” And he did
take such care of his glass box, that he outlived all save one of my
brethren.
Both he and his cheery brother Edward were storehouses of learning on
all points concerning old Scotch lore, especially on local subjects, and
they were the last survivors of those to whom we could refer any
disputed questions. Edward’s delight was in puzzling out quaint letters
in the old family charter-rooms, many of which he published in three
volumes, entitled, _Social Life in Former Days_ and _Documents Relating
to the Province of Moray_.
His elder brother’s chief delight was in his gardens, and in proving how
excellent is the soil and climate of “the Laich” or lowlands of Moray
for the growth of fruit, especially pears, apples, plums, and small
fruits. Great was his satisfaction when some of his pears took the first
prize at Chiswick, in days when most folk south of the Tweed still
believed Scotland to be a land where a semi-civilised race lived on
oatmeal! How anxiously he watched the ripening of the first fruits of
new varieties, and then at the exact right moment he brought the
precious fruit, divided into sections that we might each give our
verdict of its merits.
These two dear old brothers lived about twelve miles apart, Edward’s
home being at Sea Park, about a mile from Findhorn Bay, and their great
pleasure in later days was an occasional visit of one to the other. Both
retained all their mental faculties perfect to the very end, and were
only laid aside by bodily illness for a brief period. When, on 6th
January 1898, Sir Archibald passed away, Edward being unable to attend
his funeral, telegraphed to his son the Rev. John Archibald, to come
from London to take his place. Obedient to his summons, the son reached
Sea Park on 11th January, just in time to witness his father’s death ere
attending his uncle’s funeral, returning thence to make the necessary
arrangements for that of his father.
To return to my father’s numerous sisters. MARGARET married Major Madden
of Kellsgrange, in County Kilkenny, and from her descend our Mortimer
cousins. EDWINA married Mr. Miller of Glenlee, the eldest son of Lord
Glenlee, the judge, and her son succeeded to the baronetcy. She was one
of the kindest-hearted women that ever lived, but she was sorely tried
by the number of grandchildren who accumulated around her. One of these
having died, a friend called to express polite regret, and was somewhat
startled at the truthful, though unconventional reply, “Oh! my dear, do
not condole with me. There is much more room for it in heaven than in my
house!”
LOUISA married Lord Medwyn, who, like Lord Glenlee, was what is known in
Scotland as “a law lord,” the wife not sharing his title, but being
simply Mrs. Forbes of Medwyn. Her eldest son, William, married Miss
Archer Houblon. Their daughter Louisa married Sir James Ferguson, and
Mary married Lord Mar and Kellie.
The second son, Alexander, became the saintly and greatly beloved Bishop
of Brechin. He was greatly helped in church-work by his sisters Helen
and Elizabeth (commonly called “Buffy”). Helen, under the name of
“Zeta,” published many lovely songs—in fact all this branch of the
family have been specially distinguished for musical talent.
Their sister Louisa Forbes married Colonel Abercromby, eldest son of
Lord Abercromby, whose delightful home, Airthrie Castle, lies at the
foot of the Ochils, between romantic Stirling and Bridge of Allan. Her
only daughter, “Monty,” married the Earl of Glasgow.
In those days party politics ran so high as to mar many a happy
courtship, and as all the Forbes and Cumming connection were
uncompromising Tories, Louisa’s engagement to the son of a staunch Whig
family aroused much opposition. Nevertheless love carried the day, but
her mother’s parting counsel on the wedding day was delightfully
characteristic: “Well, daughty” (_i.e._ dearie), “you’ll sometimes hear
something good about the Tories, and I’ll tell you what to do then. Just
go to your own room and lock the door, and have a bit dance by
yourself!”
Four of my father’s sisters who did not marry, namely JANE, MARY,
EMILIA, and SOPHIA, lived together with their mother, Dame Helen, in her
dower-home, Forres House, three miles from Altyre; and on her death,
they rented Moy on the other side of the river Findhorn, and were
familiarly known as “the Moy Aunts.”
The eldest of the four, Miss JANE, was considered the cleverest, and she
certainly was the managing partner, much given to having a finger in
every pie, in a fashion which did not tend to make her popular with her
younger relations. She was noted for her ready wit, of which, however,
only one instance now occurs to me. There had been a dispute between
several of the neighbouring proprietors concerning certain boundaries,
and they were disposed to carry the matter to the law-courts. At last
one not interested (I think it was MacPherson Grant of Ballindalloch on
the Spey) stepped in, and decided the matter to the satisfaction of all
concerned, whereupon the disputants resolved to present him with a
thankoffering, and what could be so useful as a silver hot-water jug for
the brewing of the toddy (whisky with boiling water and sugar), which
invariably ended every dinner, no matter how great had been the variety
of wines consumed, and of which every lady present accepted a
wine-glassful from the tumbler of the gentleman next to her, doled out
with a silver ladle.[10]
But now the question arose what would be a suitable inscription, and
here again much discussion ensued, when happily Miss Jane entered the
room, and all agreed to refer the decision to her. Without a moment’s
hesitation she replied, “Presented to Ballindalloch to keep him in hot
water, for keeping his friends out of it,” a neat solution of the
difficulty, which was accepted with acclamation.
The handsomest sister, EMILIA, was beloved by Charles Grant, who
afterwards became great in law, and assumed the title of Lord Glenelg.
But her kinsfolk refused to sanction her marriage to a young Whig
barrister, so they were compelled to part, but each remained constant to
the memory of the other till death reunited them.
SOPHIA, a fair-haired, gentle little soul, was an exquisite musician,
and was accounted a sort of Saint Cecilia. There was a charmingly mellow
old organ in the dining-room at Altyre, on which she was wont to play
divinely. My brother Henry likewise delighted in it. After my father’s
death, it was transferred to the Bishop of Brechin’s Church at Dundee.
In common with all the family, all these sisters were great pillars of
the Episcopal Church in Forres, that singularly inconvenient cruciform
chapel which was built in 1841. (Prior to that date there seems to have
been no Episcopal service in the town since 1745.) Many of the
congregation drove very long distances every Sunday; and it must have
been bad weather indeed when the Cumming-Bruces from Dunphail were
missing, though they had to drive eight miles, and others came from
still further.
For some time there was no parsonage, and the first incumbent, the Rev.
Alexander Ewing, afterwards Bishop of Argyll and the Isles, lived at
lovely Logie on the Findhorn, the property of our cousins, the Cummings
of Logie. He was a charming personality, and continued one of our
dearest friends till the day of his death.
His first wife was a daughter of General Stewart of Pittyvaich, in the
valley of Mortlach, in Banffshire. Her sister Elizabeth married my
brother Henry, and Clifford married Canon Robinson of Norwich Cathedral,
who is also Master of St. Catherine’s at Cambridge. She was one of the
best-loved women in either city, and one of Dean Goulburn’s most
pathetic utterances was his address in Norwich Cathedral on the occasion
of her funeral. To the grand teacher, whose motto was “Detest
affectation” (how often I think of him when I see women raise their
elbow at a right angle when they shake hands!), her perfectly natural,
genuine sweetness and cordiality to every one especially appealed.[11]
Mr. Ewing was succeeded at Forres by the Rev. Hugh Willoughby Jermyn,
who was afterwards Bishop of Colombo in Ceylon, and when driven back to
the home-land in shattered health, was appointed to succeed my cousin,
Alexander Forbes, in the Bishopric of Brechin, and elected Primus of the
Episcopal Church in Scotland.
CHAPTER II
The Altyre Gardens—Home Interests—Our Mother’s Death—Early
Influences—The Moray Floods.
“In the silence of my chamber,
When the night is still and deep,
And the drowsy heave of ocean
Mutters in its charmèd sleep,
Oft I hear the angel voices
That have thrilled me long ago:
Voices of my lost companions
Rise around me soft and low.
“Oh, the garden I remember,
In the gay and sunny spring,
When our laughter made the thickets
And the arching alleys ring!
· · · · ·
Oh! the radiant light that girdled
Field and forest, land and sea,
When we all were young together
And the earth was new to me.”
(From “The Buried Flower” in _Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers_ by
PROFESSOR AYTOUN.)
On my birth (26th May 1837), within six hours of that interesting event,
I was sent to Moy to the care of my father’s four unmarried sisters
(generally known as “the Moy Aunts”), because scarlet fever reigned at
Altyre; my brother Walter Frederick and my sister Constance had just
died of it, and Eleanora lay in imminent danger, so a carriage was in
readiness to take away the precious baby and her wet-nurse as quickly as
possible. Thus my travels began early, though thirty years were to
elapse ere opportunity offered for going further afield than Great
Britain. It was to the death of this brother and sister that I owe my
name, CONSTANCE FREDERICA; but though my mother wished to keep both
names, she shrank from using either, and so took the sound of the end of
the second name, and called me EKA, the only name by which I have ever
been known in my own family. It was not till school days that the more
dignified Constance came into use.
My memories of the next five years are necessarily very limited. I
recollect my mother’s glorious masses of hair falling in clustering
ringlets far below her waist. I remember her lovely songs and her joy in
the great beautiful gardens of her own creation, and those stands of
“dusty millers”—large very varied auriculas—which were the gardener’s
special pride, and above all, the greenhouse on one side of the house,
which was the very first greenhouse in Morayshire. Among its delights
was a fragrant mimosa-tree covered with sweet yellow blossom, and a
large white jessamine with shining leaves, clustering round upper
windows, which, looking into the greenhouse, had the full benefit of all
its sweetness.
How she joyed in every new variety of favourite flowers, the splendid
fuchsias, the large blue aquilegia (Brodie Columbine), and the bright
blue salvias, whose store of honey too often proved as irresistible to
her naughty child as to her friends, the bumble bees—a friendship shared
with the fat, ugly toads which the gardeners cherished.
To my mother the staff of under-gardeners were not merely “hands.” She
took the keenest interest in providing them with all the best books on
botany and horticulture, and many successful gardeners scattered over
the world owed their start in life to her encouragement. A conspicuous
example was that of Jamie Sinclair, who, during the Crimean War from
1854 to 1856, was found in charge of Prince Worenzow’s beautiful
gardens, and who rejoiced to tell the British officers of his start from
the Altyre gardens.
I find an interesting reference to him, and to my mother’s care for her
employés, in a paper in _The Cottage Gardener_ (dated about 1856), by
Mr. D. Beaton, head gardener to Sir W. Middleton at Shrubland Park. He
tells how he himself had his earliest training in the gardens at
Beaufort Castle, whence he passed to Altyre. “The collection of plants
there,” he says, “was immense, and I was at the head of them in less
than a twelvemonth. I had access to all the books and periodicals on
gardening.
“Here I first began crossing, budding plants, and bulbs, three favourite
pursuits with Lady Gordon-Cumming, who after many years sent seeds of
her crossed rhododendrons to Shrubland Park at my instance.”
I have a letter to my mother from her second daughter, Ida, telling as a
great secret of her hopes and persevering efforts to obtain a blue
geranium by crossing the wild crane’s bill with a very pure white
pelargonium. The result, however, is not recorded.
Mr. Beaton goes on to say: “The great African lionhunter, Sir William’s
second son, was then learning his lessons in books and horsemanship; he
was the handsomest boy in all Scotland, and so fond of fun and dancing,
that we could have a ball and supper any night in the year, through his
influence with ‘Mamma.’ Jamie Sinclair, the garden-boy, was a natural
genius, and played the violin. Lady Gordon-Cumming had this boy educated
by the family tutor, and sent him to London, where he became well known
for his skill in drawing and colouring.
“Mr. Knight, of the Exotic Nursery, for whom he used to draw orchids and
new plants, sent him to the Crimea to Prince Worenzow, where he
practised for thirteen years. He laid out those beautiful gardens which
the Allies so much admired; had the care of a thousand acres of
vineyards belonging to the Prince; was well known to the Czar, who often
consulted him about improvements, and who gave him a ‘medal of merit’
and a diploma, or kind of passport, by which he was free to pass from
one end of the Empire to the other, and also through Austria and
Prussia. He was the only foreigner who was ever allowed to see all that
was done in and out of Sebastopol and over all the Crimea.”
Throughout her brief, bright life, my mother’s influence was always
exerted for good, as beseemed one who was a reverent student of the Holy
Scriptures. She and most of her sisters were keenly interested in the
subject of prophecy, and eagerly studied every new book that appeared
thereon. Both she and my father were careful to train their children in
reverent love for the “Holy Book,” and in the practice of learning by
heart at least one verse every day. I think the very first which I thus
learnt was the Psalm from which, at the beginning of these “Memories,” I
have quoted a verse in the past tense, which sixty-five years ago she
taught me in the future tense.
When her favourite son, Roualeyn, on his deathbed, surprised us all by
his knowledge of the Holy Scriptures, he told us that through all his
stormy life he had never been parted from the Old Book given him by his
mother, so that his mind was like a well-built fire, ready to respond to
the Divine spark, which at last kindled it so effectually.
Natural as was the worship with which her sons regarded their beautiful
mother, it was doubtless accentuated by her keen personal interest in
all their pursuits; and amongst minor details, I can remember the skill
with which her firm, capable hands tied those beautiful salmon and trout
flies which beguiled so many bonnie fish—an art in which her sons became
equally adept; and no more acceptable gift could reach them from far
countries than gay feathers with which to try new experiments.
Perhaps some fishermen may like to know a little secret confided to me
by my brother Roualeyn, which was, that when the fish were sulky,
refusing his best flies (_N.B._ _Fish_ invariably means salmon) he would
let them rest a while. Then, tying a bit of tackle off a common rook’s
feather on to a common bait-hook, he would let it float down stream, and
almost invariably captured some inquisitive fish which came up to look
at it.
To me, to whom sewing in any form is as hateful as having to do the
simplest sum in arithmetic, it seems somewhat remarkable that,
notwithstanding the very varied occupations of my mother and elder
sisters, they all excelled in needlework, both useful and ornamental.
They would gather a handful of graceful flowers, and then and there,
with coloured silks, reproduce them on red cloth stretched on an
embroidery frame. Some of these are still in the possession of daughters
or grand-daughters, and are so fine that each would seem as though it
must have taken months of toil.
All my mother’s daughters were endowed with much of her own artistic
talent, and delighted in painting both in oil and water-colour, fired
thereto by frequent visits from such artists as Sir Edwin Landseer, Sir
William Ross, Saunders, Giles, and others.
Among the early details which most impressed themselves on the memory of
the “Baby” of the home was the wonderful “Birthday Chair,” which on the
26th of May was always prepared for her use at all meals. Early in the
morning the elder sisters went out and presently returned laden with
boughs of delicious lilac and graceful golden laburnum. Tall
willow-wands, tied to a high wooden armchair, formed the light framework
to which were fastened this wealth of fragrant spring blossoms—a lovely
bower wherein the happy child sat in truly regal state.
This pretty custom was kept up till my ninth birthday, and the lilacs
never failed us. Nowadays I doubt whether a solitary spray would be
found in blossom in the North, just as in those days all the girls
reserved their daintiest muslins to wear at the Inverness Games in
September. Now wisdom and comfort alike demand warm tweeds. And as to
the delicious ripe peaches which we used to gather on the open wall, the
modern gardeners hear of them with polite incredulity. Are we returning
to a glacial epoch?
[Illustration:
_Emery Walker, ph. sc._
_Eliza Maria, Lady Gordon-Cumming of Altyre._
_Painted by Saunders about 1830._
]
Among my vivid memories of about 1840 were certain evenings when my
mother returned from distant expeditions escorted by several gentlemen,
whom I now know to have been Sir Roderick Murchison, Hugh Miller,
Agasis, and other eminent geologists, who at that time were deeply
interested in the newly discovered fossil fish in the Old Red Sandstone
in Ross-shire, on the other side of the Moray Firth. Similar fossils had
just been found in the Lethen-bar Lime Quarries, on the other side of
the Findhorn.[12] These were a source of keen interest to my mother, and
it was to search for more that the geologists were invited to Altyre.
Evening after evening there was great excitement in carefully lifting
from a dogcart the spoils of the day, namely grey nodules which, when
gently tapped with a hammer, split in two, revealing the two perfect
sides of strange fossil fishes, with the very colour of the scales still
vivid. Day by day my elder sisters patiently made minutely accurate
water-colour studies of these, and the best specimens were sent to the
British Museum, where they still remain, and where certain fishes
hitherto unknown, were called after my mother.
The poorer specimens were deposited in rows under the verandah, and
there remained as familiar objects of our early days.
On other evenings there was the home-bringing of various game, furred
and feathered, or of bonnie speckled trout from the Altyre burn, the
Loch of Blairs, or Loch Romach (the latter a curious, long, narrow loch
in a ravine between densely wooded hills); but the special excitement
lay in the silvery salmon caught in the Findhorn by my father, mother,
and brothers, all of whom were skilful fishers. The keepers loved to
tell of one day when my mother caught, played, and landed eight fine
fish to her own rod. Those who know the rocky bed of the beautiful
river, hemmed in by steep banks, can appreciate the difficulty of such
fishing-ground for a lady, especially one of goodly proportions. In
those days it was very exceptional for ladies to venture on salmon
fishing.
On one occasion she had a very narrow escape of being washed away by one
of those tremendously rapid spates which now and then occur after very
heavy rainfall in the upper districts, when the river, without any
notice, comes down in a gigantic flood-wave. She was standing in
midstream, quietly fishing, when suddenly a thunderous roar of waters,
effectually drowning the ordinary sound of the rushing, swirling river,
warned her of something unusual. She leapt from rock to rock, back to
the bank, and had scarcely time to scramble up the steep footpath ere a
seething torrent, more than eight feet in depth, was dashing over the
spot where she had been standing.
Most delightful of all to the little, fair-haired child with the long,
yellow ringlets was the joy of delightful drives, sitting “bodkin”
between the indulgent parents who so patiently endured the bumping up
and down of the odious brat who tried to keep time with the postillion.
At that time postillions were the fashion, and the extra men to be
entertained when the house was full of company (and Altyre always was
full) must have been considerable—and visits were wont to be
indefinitely prolonged. When Colonel (afterwards sixth Earl of Seafield)
and Mrs. Grant of Grant used to come down from Castle Grant they always
had four horses and two postillions, two outriders, valet, and
lady’s-maid. So that entertaining one couple meant also five men, a
maid, and six horses.
Every year there was a season of sore bereavement for us children, when
our parents and older sisters started on the long drive of six hundred
miles from Altyre to London for the season, posting all the way.
Occasionally their journey was continued to Paris, and several large
excellent copies at Gordonstoun of pictures in the Louvre tell of the
special permission to paint there, granted to them by personal favour of
Louis Philippe, in days when such permits were not easily obtained.
Among my treasured relics are several letters to me from my mother,
written during her last absence, when I was just four years old. With
these precious letters there are several locks of exquisitely fine
yellow hair, like spun glass, each folded in the gilt-edged paper, which
was then the correct note-paper. They are marked in my mother’s writing
as being my own hair at three weeks old, and the idolised brother and
sister who died when I was born. One lustrous lock is marked by my
father as that of his beautiful boy “Roualeyn,” “Robh Ailean,” two
Gaelic words of which, curiously enough, no one can tell us the
connected meaning. Robh would be pronounced row, like “to row a boat,”
and “ailean” means white. It is possible that my mother took the name
from Rowallan Castle, three miles from Kilmarnock, which was built about
1270, in the reign of King Alexander III. of Scotland, by the son-in-law
of Sir Walter Comyn of Rowallane. But that would not account for my
father spelling his son’s name as above. It is a grand name, but its
owner was generally known in the family as Zoe.
By the time of my birth he was a beautiful lad, captivating all hearts,
and worshipped by the people, in whose eyes he could do no wrong. I am
not sure, however, that his tutors always shared this view of the case.
One in particular was a young theological student, so exceedingly minute
that when he stepped down from the gig which had been sent to meet him,
and my father perceived the infinitesimal mortal who had come to take
charge of his stalwart sons, he could not resist the joke, but catching
him up in his arms, carried him to the room where my mother and other
ladies were sitting, and set him down exclaiming, “Eliza, here’s the new
dominie!!”
It was scarcely surprising that on the first occasion that the little
man ventured to suggest reporting some of Roualeyn’s misdemeanours, his
pupil took him by the scruff of the neck and led him to his mother,
saying, “Mamma, Mr. M‘Watt wishes to make a complaint about me, so I
have brought him here that he may do so.” It would have been hard indeed
for any adoring mother to assume the correct severity, and certainly
Roualeyn rarely had long to wait for absolution, and leave to forsake
the uncongenial lesson-books, and be off to the river or the woods,
leaving the little “dominie” the more leisure to pursue his own
theological studies.
It is pleasant to add that in after years not only were these
reminiscences dear to the little dominie himself, but also that his
stalwart pupil held him in very affectionate remembrance, and it was for
him he sent to come and visit him when, thirty years later, he lay on
his deathbed in old Fort Augustus.
But in those days sport was the one thought of all my brothers; and I
can just remember the tremendous excitement of stamping out circular
wads of pasteboard and other preparations for the 12th of August, and at
other times that of melting lead in the kitchen to make bullets in
moulds for the roe which were then abundant in the woods. These were the
early stages of that love of sport which subsequently led to Roualeyn
being known as the Mighty Lion Hunter of South Africa,[13] and to those
years of adventure, hitherto unparalleled, resulting in acquiring that
marvellous collection of trophies of his own gun which were exhibited in
London in 1851. This, be it remembered, was in days when breech-loaders
were unknown, and sportsmen (TRUE SPORTSMEN, as all my brothers were)
were largely dependent on their own rapidity in muzzle-loading.
My brother William has recorded some of his most thrilling experiences
in tiger-hunting and training wild Bheel tribes.[14] But my brothers
John and Frank, though quite as skilful and successful in the chase,
have left no record of their prowess, save in the memory of wild tribes
who never forget such bold, brave leaders.
I spoke just now of those few precious letters from my mother which I so
justly treasure. I think I may quote a few sentences from the very last
she ever wrote to her little daughter.
“THE CLARENDON HOTEL,
LONDON, _May 1841_.
“MY OWN SWEET LITTLE DEAR EEKA,—How sorry, sorry Mamma is to hear that
her darling little girl has been ill. God bless you, my own sweet
Pigeon, God bless and preserve you from all harm. Do not forget, my
pretty Babe, to say your little prayer to God, Who loves you, and ask
good Mr. Gregory to teach you a line or two of pretty hymns every day,
to please poor old Papa and Mamma when they come back. I sometimes see
very pretty little girls here, but none that I think half so nice and
dear as my own little Eeka and Nell and Alice, when they are good.
Write a little letter to Mother, my darling, Henry will help you, and
tell me what brother Zoe is about, and if he teaches you funny songs.
I wish you could send me one of the lovely nosegays that you gather
every day in the sweet garden. I think all the beautiful purple
rhododendrons must be coming out now. You must send Mamma one little
flowerie of them in a letter, and kiss it just before you shut it up,
and the flower will bring the kiss to Mamma. I hope you are very good
and obedient to dear Chérie. Give her my kind love.
Your dear papa is quite well, and sends you many kisses. Blessings on
my sweet little one. Your own loving mother,
E. M. GORDON-CUMMING.”
Alas! ere another May came round, this beautiful and gracious mother had
passed away from earth, leaving her home desolate indeed.
On the 28th March another little brother was born—her thirteenth living
child. Some time previously she had been severely injured in stopping a
bolting horse in a gig wherein sat a terrified woman. That injury caused
her intense suffering, and less than a month after the birth of her
beautiful baby she died, in her forty-fourth year.
Never can I forget that lovely morning, 21st April 1842, when I was on
the lawn in the sunshine with Chérie (_i.e._ Julie Périllard, my Swiss
_bonne_). I vividly remember that she was dressed in white, on account
of the heat. I was gathering blue, pink, and white hepaticas for the
dear mother whose strangely laboured breathing we heard so distinctly
through the open window.[15] Presently we were summoned to her room,
where nearly all the family were assembled, and I was lifted up in
loving arms to look for the last time on the dear face. A few minutes
later that bright and blessed spirit had returned to God Who gave
it.[16]
On the 25th all that was mortal was taken away from us. From far and
near crowds assembled, not only “county neighbours,” but the poorest of
the poor who could scarcely crawl came from distant bothies far in the
moorlands, weeping bitterly for their own loss in the going away of the
ever sympathetic friend and generous physician, who in her busy life
always found time herself to visit the sick and suffering, her pony and
her gillie laden with warm clothing, simple remedies, and abundant good
food and wine, which cheered and “heartened” the ofttimes lonely and
dejected one. No wonder that she was worshipped and enshrined in the
hearts of the poor.
A simple service was held at the house by Dr. Mackay of Rafford, the
parish minister, and then from an upper window over the porch we watched
the solemn, sad procession start on the long sixteen miles to
Gordonstoun, near to which, within the park, lies the pretty old Gothic
kirk, St. Michael’s Chapel,[17] where our dead are laid to await the
Resurrection morning—a precious storehouse, wherein and around which
rest many of our very nearest and dearest. There the Rev. Alexander
Ewing met the procession, and pronounced the last solemn words. And so
the awful shadow of death fell on that home, hitherto irradiated by the
presence of one gracious woman.
In the desolation of his grief, my father sought some consolation in the
companionship of his little daughter, not yet five years old. Being
always a very early riser, and knowing how readily children, like birds,
wake with the sun, he took me to sleep in his room, so that in the early
dawn he might, without disturbing servants (especially the old nurse who
had reared us all), take me out to stroll through fields and woods, by
stream and loch. No one ever more deeply loved the song of birds, and
the beauty of changing seasons, and especially the infinitely varied
lights of “the outgoings of the morning and evening,” and as all their
beauties sank into his soul, he would ofttimes murmur, “It is a fair
Creation,” “All Thy works praise Thee, O Lord.”
You see he lived before the days of “scorching” bicycling and motor
cars, and perpetual rush, hurry, and scurry, when men and women walked
on their own feet, and still had time and inclination to drink in the
poetry and all the sweet influences of Nature, as can only be done in
stillness and at leisure. Only to such wooers does she reveal her
treasures of delight.
Specially attractive to the little child was a small birchwood, which in
spring was carpeted with white anemones, and in which lay a cool spring
of purest water. Then a folded leather cup was produced from the
father’s waistcoat pocket, and they drank together from the fairy
fountain. At other times they met the dairymaid returning from her
morning milking, with her heavy pails hanging from a yoke across her
shoulders, and gladly she halted to give “her little calfie” a drink
from the lid of her pail.
One thing never absent from my father’s pocket was a lump of the common
indigo, which then was always used in laundries, and which was very
efficacious in counteracting the pain of wasps’ stings, from which his
woodmen suffered very frequently, the woods being infested by the wasp,
which builds its curiously-constructed nest like layers of grey paper,
forming a ball, ranging from the size of a small plum to that of an
average football. These hang from the branch of some shrub or tree, and
an incautious shake brings out an angry horde. One of the minor joys of
my brethren used to be the nocturnal smoking of these “wasps’ bykes,”
and I think that this systematic destruction has reduced their numbers.
I also think there are now fewer of the very high anthills, which used
to be so numerous in the fir-woods among the dry needles which covered
the ground, and which we were sometimes unkind enough to disturb
cautiously, in order to see the amazing activity of the ant-colonies.
Sir William always had a kind, cheery word for every one he met, and all
the people loved him. If he came suddenly on a group of old women from
the town, who had ventured too far into his woods in search of firewood,
they knew very well that the laird would be quite ready himself to give
them a helping hand in shouldering their heavy burdens—even if they
chanced to be adorned with sprays of his recently planted rhododendrons.
When unsympathetic persons occasionally expressed surprise at his
refusing to put up notices to warn off trespassers, he replied that the
only notice to which he could consent would be one requesting the public
to preserve what was thus given for public enjoyment.
I remember the dismay of a large party of young folk who had wandered up
one Sunday afternoon through the pleasant woods till they came to a
large outlying fruitgarden, more than half a mile from the house, and
found the splendid crop of ripe gooseberries irresistible, when suddenly
the laird himself appeared. Naturally they were about to run off in
great confusion, when they were arrested by his kind voice, telling them
to stay and enjoy themselves; “only,” he added, “be sure you don’t tell
the people in Forres how good they are!”
Between that garden and the sweet Altyre burn there stood (and happily
still stand) some of the finest old trees on the estate, and beneath
these, all round a little pond, snowdrops and daffodils had been planted
so lavishly that in early spring the ground was first white and then
gold, delightful to see and to gather; and a little further down the
burnside they grew in rank profusion all around the ivy-covered ruins of
an old kirk and quiet kirkyard.
How strangely some small things take root in our memories, when greater
are forgotten. One of the things which my father impressed on me by word
and example was always to kick aside any loose stone on the road which
might possibly cause a horse to stumble. To this day I never see such a
stone anywhere, without a well-nigh irresistible instinct to obey the
instructions given more than threescore years ago. And the teaching
holds good in regard to other fellow-creatures as well as horses.
Yet one more detail concerning those early days, which almost seems as
if it might have influenced my later years, namely, that in my father’s
dressing-room were stored the large illustrated editions of _Captain
Cook’s Voyages in the South Sea Isles_ and various other books of
travel.
The pictures in these could not fail to interest any one; but they were
fascinating indeed in comparison with the wretched woodcuts which alone
illustrated books specially intended for children. Nevertheless we loved
those ugly, and often very prosy books, and read and re-read them, as no
modern child ever seems to do the beautiful books so profusely lavished
on it.
A good story does not lose by repetition, and many a happy hour we
children spent with our quaint old Northumbrian nurse, when (having
carefully suspended several fine large apples from a row of nails in her
wooden mantelpiece, and placed a plate beneath each to catch the drip,
mingled with cinders), we settled down (with one eye on the apples) to
thoroughly enjoy one of her somewhat limited stock of stories. Certainly
at least once a week the petition was, “Please, Nan, tell us the story
about the Fatted Calf.” Such was our rendering of the return of the
Prodigal Son.
Old Nan, who even then appeared to us quite antediluvian (with a face
like a very wizened apple, and a huge lace cap with large bows of
ribbon), lived to receive a home in my brother Henry’s family, and was
eventually buried beside the old parish church of Mortlach. And Chérie,
the Swiss _bonne_, who had been with my mother before her marriage,
lived with my eldest sister and her children, till she likewise was laid
to rest beside the ancient church of Bewick in Northumberland.
She was endowed with a very hasty temper, and her short method of
dealing with youth was simple and rapid. About the third mistake, came
the invariable thump in the small of the back, which sent us gasping to
the other side of the room, where we were occasionally overtaken by a
substantial brown Bible—a handy missile, and effectual when hurled by a
strong Swiss arm. It was an external application of spiritual truth with
which we would gladly have dispensed; nevertheless the fine old lady
held her ground with her pupils, and I believe we honestly preferred her
hot temper to the sugar and water of some of her English colleagues, and
with the curious loyalty of children, it never occurred to us to report
to our parents how many thumps we received. But my eldest sister,
remembering her peculiarities, kept them well in check when under her
control, so that her children of the third generation were reared on a
strictly protected system.
The Biblical knowledge which we acquired from our varied teachers was
apt occasionally to blend with more recent events, especially details
relating to the Flood, inasmuch as all manner of events were dated as
having happened before or after the Flood, _C’était avant le Déluge_.
The catastrophe referred to was locally known as “the Moray Floods,”
which occurred in 1829, just eight years before my birth. After a summer
of exceeding heat and prolonged drought, an unprecedented deluge of rain
commenced on August 2nd and continued without intermission for two days,
accompanied by a hurricane from the north-east. All the rivers and every
streamlet were quickly transformed to raging torrents—the Dee, the Spey,
the Lossie, the Nairn, Findhorn, Dorbach, Devie, and (what chiefly
affected my home), the usually half-dry Altyre burn. The Findhorn, pent
in between steep crags, actually at one point rose fifty feet above the
usual level, and at its junction with the Devie fully forty feet—a brief
inscription on the rock above one of the lovely paths marks the flood
line.
A very graphic description of the whole scene was written by our
neighbour, Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, who, having married Miss Cumming, the
owner of lovely Relugas, just above the said meeting of the waters, had
a full view of the spate, and records the deafening roar of the flood,
rolling huge boulders over the rocky bed of the river, and the crashing
of trees and shrieking of the wind.
Throughout the district scarcely a bridge was left standing except the
single arch stone bridges, founded on rock and high above the streams.
One at Fochabers, which only twenty-five years previously had cost
£14,000, was swept away by the raging Spey. That across the Findhorn
near Forres, and the Lossie Bridge at Bishopmill, shared the same fate.
My uncle’s newly-built house of Dunphail escaped almost miraculously,
the high bank on which it stands having been undermined, so that it fell
within three feet of the east tower. It cost £5000 to repair the damage
on that estate. Lord Cawdor’s loss was upwards of £8000; the Duke of
Gordon’s was over £16,000.
As to the farmers and poorer people, many were absolutely ruined, for,
of course, where the waters had room for expansion, they overspread the
whole low country, and around Forres formed a lake covering fully twenty
square miles, carrying houses, timber, crops, even the very soil, out to
sea, and leaving pitiful ruin and desolation in every direction—all
gardens and fine arable land being covered with gravel and boulders.
Near Elgin, the river Lossie broke all bounds, and resuming its ancient
channel through the Loch of Spynie, swept away the sluices and bulwarks,
which had been created at great cost to separate it from the sea, which
consequently once again submerged the valuable reclaimed land,
converting it into a salt marsh.
A “Flood Fund” was raised to give immediate relief to upwards of three
thousand of those who were left most destitute, but in most cases the
suffering and loss were irreparable. Some poor folk were rescued after
they had clung for many hours to the rafters of their ruined cottages.
One young woman was sitting up to her neck in water, holding in her arms
the dead body of her old aunt. Various other people were drowned. So the
Moray Floods hold a very distinct place in the annals of the province,
and figured largely in the nursery talk of my own early days, especially
such details as the flooding of the lawn at Altyre, and how my brothers
had caught trout from the windows.
NOTE.
Although some of our relations on each side of the family have attained
to threescore years and ten, very few have gone much beyond that term. A
few have attained to fourscore years, and my uncle, Charles
Cumming-Bruce, born in 1790, lived to the ripe age of eighty-four; but
they were exceptional. The excellent machines entrusted to our care have
generally been worked at high pressure, and consequently have worn out
before their time. Certainly our race as a whole has not proved
long-lived, and sometimes I marvel how so great a mark has been made in
so brief a period.
Thus my beautiful mother was not forty-four when she died.
My sister, Seymour Baker-Cresswell, died at forty.
Ida (Adelaide Eliza Baker-Cresswell), died at forty-five.
Alice Jenkinson was but thirty-two.
Eleanora Grant lived to be fifty-nine and a half.
My half-sister, Jane Eliza, was fifty-two.
My sister, Constance, about twelve.
My brother, Walter, about five.
My father lived to be sixty-seven.
His eldest son, Alexander Penrose, died at fifty.
Roualeyn was only forty-six.
Henry lived to be sixty-five.
John died in Ceylon, aged thirty-nine.
Others died in their prime from accidental causes. My brother-in-law,
Oswin Baker-Cresswell, who seemed to be as mighty in strength as in
stature, passed away, after three days’ illness, at thirty-six, and his
eldest son at forty-one. My other brother-in-law, William
Baker-Cresswell, passed away in his early prime, aged about twenty-nine.
CHAPTER III
The Altyre Woods—Banks of the Findhorn—Culbyn Sandhills—Covesea Caves.
“They grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee,
Their graves are severed, far and wide
By mount, and stream and sea.
· · · · ·
“And parted thus they lie, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee.
They that with smiles lit up the hall
And cheered with song the hearth,
Alas! for love, if thou wert all
And naught beyond, O Earth!”—MRS. HEMANS.
I must now recall some of the leading characteristics of the beautiful
surroundings of those early homes in which my father’s flourishing
family of sixteen (fourteen of whom lived to man’s estate) rejoiced in
their glad young lives—now all an idyll of the past.
Probably the most striking features of Altyre and the neighbouring
estates are the great woods and fields dotted over with fine old trees,
extending in every direction.
Nowhere are the fruits of Sir Walter Scott’s wise counsel, “Aye be
stickin’ in a tree,” better exemplified than in Morayshire, where in the
last two centuries the principal proprietors have done their utmost to
reclothe the land, once so densely covered with primeval forest, but
which was so ruthlessly cut for firewood and for building purposes,
without a thought of replanting, that by the end of the sixteenth
century the country was all bare.
[Illustration:
_C. F. Gordon Cumming._
ALTYRE PRIOR TO 1854.
]
So we are chiefly indebted for the lovely Morayshire woods of the
present day to such men as the sixth Earl of Findlater, who planted 8000
acres in Banff and Moray with larch, Scotch fir, and ornamental trees;
while Francis, Earl of Moray, who succeeded in 1767 to the family
estates of Darnaway, Doune, and Donibristle, is said to have thereon
planted in the two following years thirteen million trees, of which
1,500,000 were oaks. The Earls of Seafield and of Fife carried on the
good work, and my father and his brother, Charles Cumming-Bruce, each
planted immense tracts of waste land, which are now remunerative
forests.
The latter were among the first to introduce and multiply the beautiful
evergreens which we now look upon as a birthright, and can scarcely
realise that about eighty years ago rhododendrons, Portugal and other
laurels, laurustinus arbutus, and most of the beautiful varieties of
pines and cedars, were unknown in Britain, so that these have to be
reckoned among the blessings of life in the nineteenth century.
A drive of about a mile through luxuriant laurels, rhododendrons, fir,
and heather brought us to the West Lodge, just beyond which flows the
Findhorn, which, with its tributaries the Dorbach and the Devie, forms
the loveliest group of all Highland rivers. The course of the Findhorn
is singularly varied. For some distance near Altyre deep red sandstone
cliffs, crowned with dark fir-trees, rise to a height of about two
hundred feet from the rich brown river, the colour of which I can best
describe as that of London porter—coffee scarcely supplying the full
depth of tone.
Further up stream, the sandstone is abruptly replaced for many miles by
crags of grey gneiss, clothed with the loveliest hanging woods—the
graceful white-stemmed birch, the alder, the wild cherry, the
bird-cherry, mingling with dark Scotch fir and with an undergrowth of
heather and bracken—a scene exquisitely varied at all seasons, but in
autumn combining to form for the wondrous brown waters a setting of
orange and gold, crimson, scarlet, dark green, purple and sienna.
As it nears the sea, this beautiful and romantic river totally changes
its character, and those who know it only from crossing the railway
bridge near Forres see but a wide, often shallow, stream flowing
seawards through level sands, very soon to form the placid Findhorn Bay,
guarded from the full force of the tide by a bar of its own creation.
From this estuary, a belt of most singular character stretches along the
sea towards Nairn, an expanse two or three miles wide of arid yellow
sandhills, for ever shifting and changing their form as the strong winds
sweep the fine light sands, beneath which lies buried land formerly so
fertile that prior to 1695 it was called the “Granary of Moray,” but now
known only as the Culbyn sandhills, or, as it is spelt in an old
charter, Cowbyn—and is pronounced _coo_.
The earliest mention thereof is the record of how, in the fifteenth
century, Egidia de Moravia, heiress of Culbyn, bestowed her hand and her
lands on Sir Thomas Kynnaird of that Ilk. In 1695 his descendant,
Alexander, last of the Kynnairds of Culbyn, petitioned the Scottish
Parliament for relief of cess and taxes, showing that the two best parts
of his estates of Culbyn were quite ruined and destroyed by “an
inevitable fatality, occasioned by great and vast heaps of sand which
had overblown the same, so that there was not a vestige to be seen of
his manor-place of Culbyn, yards, orchards, and mains thereof ... and
the small remainder of his estate, which yet remained uncovered, was
exposed to the like hazard, and the sand daily gaining ground thereon,
where-through he was like to run the hazard of losing the whole.”
According to tradition, the waving crops were ready for harvest, when a
mighty tempest arose and a strong northerly gale, and in a single night
the fields lay buried beneath two feet of fine sand. Over a great part
of this desolate region there is now not a trace of vegetation, but here
and there are tracts dotted over with broom and whins, all nibbled by
the countless rabbits, as if clipped by the hand of some fanciful
gardener. Elsewhere the hillocks are clothed with dry bent (coarse
sea-grass with long roots and fibres, which does its best to bind the
loose sand).[18]
Sometimes the wind lays bare the once arable land, now so hopelessly
buried, and reveals the ridges and furrows formerly carefully ploughed.
In the early part of this century the tops of apple-trees, and even the
chimneys of the old mansion-house have been seen, but a few hours later
all trace of them had vanished. In some places you come on tracts of
soil and shingle rounded and polished as if by the action of water, but
exactly recalling patches of the Egyptian desert, where beds of pebbles,
polished by the ceaseless friction of wind and sand, reflect the
sunlight like countless rounded mirrors.
In my childhood this dreary region was haunted by innumerable foxes,
which here reared their young undisturbed, finding abundant food in the
natural rabbit-warren, varied by clever captures of wild geese and
ducks, whose slaughter called down no vengeance from any farmer. For
further to the west lay a swampy marsh, interspersed with little lochs,
bordered with rank grass and water-weeds, and these were the favourite
feeding-grounds of wild-fowl of all sorts, including rare varieties of
wild-duck, flocks of geese, and of wild swans.
But now all has been drained to such an extent that the strong, deep
heather and sedgy marshes are replaced by plantations of fir-trees and
fields of oats, and even the sandhills have been in a great measure
conquered and reclaimed.
I know no corner of the world where the face of the earth has undergone
so many remarkable changes within historic times as along the shores of
the Moray Firth, between the mouths of the rivers Nairn and Spey.
Following the coast eastward from the mouth of the Findhorn, it is said
that where the bright sands now lie crisp and firm, there were formerly
wide reaches of alluvial mud, rich in oysters, and further, along the
now treeless expanse towards Burghead, it is certain that there formerly
stretched a great forest which supplied the Danes with timber for their
shipbuilding, when early in the eleventh century they occupied Burghead.
But the strangest of all these changes were those which successively
transformed the beautiful loch of Spynie, near Elgin, from an arm of the
sea into a great fresh-water lake, and finally into rich pastures and
corn-fields, and all these changes have occurred since the Bishops of
Moray built their stately palace overlooking the fisher’s village—a
palace which for centuries has been left desolate on the shore of a
half-drained inland loch.[19]
Dearer, if possible, than even the fragrant Altyre woods, was the breath
of old ocean and the great green waves, the memory of which so often
comes back to me, now that I seem destined to end my days in the very
centre of Scotland. And blending with the invigorating scent of the
seaweed-covered rocks was the honied perfume of white clover and fields
of beans in blossom. Truly a breath of heaven.
My earliest memories of the sea are all associated with the “Covesea
Caves,” which honeycomb the richly tinted sandstone crags, extending for
about three miles along the shores of the Moray Firth, forming the grand
natural bulwark of my father’s sea-board estate of Gordonstoun—one of
the oldest homes of the Gordons, as Altyre was of the Comyns.
Strange to say, this fine mass of sandstone crops up quite suddenly in
the middle of a wide expanse of level sands, which stretch to east and
west. As seen at low tide on a sunny day, these crags afford a feast of
colour which, so far as my pretty wide experience goes, is unsurpassed
in any corner of the world. It ranges from deep Venetian red and brown
madder shot with the gleaming green of wet weed within some of the great
gloomy caves, to the most vivid sienna and cadmium glowing in the
sunlight, and varied with pearly grey, all harmonised by grey, green,
and golden lichens. At the base of the crags lie masses of dark brown
rock, fringed with yellow and olive sea-weed, with here and there
stretches of pale sandhills, partly covered with coarse bent, partly
with rich turf, which in the springtime is starred with delicate
primroses, and these in due season are replaced by tall spikes of rosy
foxglove.
Smooth, yellow sands meet the clear blue and green waters, and with the
blue, distant hills seen beyond the Moray and Cromarty Firths, and the
soft blue sky overhead (varied by dark leaden-grey or dazzlingly white
clouds) combine, even in the prosaic light of noonday, to produce
effects of colour which must rejoice all true lovers of beautiful
nature. Doubtless these unconsciously influenced our childish minds,
when those cave-pierced crags formed the delightful playground of a
happy band of brothers and sisters in the joyful years of our early
youth.
Great was our delight when, in the long summer days, the family forsook
for a while the lovely woods and gardens of Altyre, and drove sixteen
miles in the direction of Elgin to the delightfully quaint old house of
Gordonstoun, which contains within itself stone-and-lime suggestions of
the successive homes of some twenty generations.
The site of the original house was selected when it was well not to
attract the attention of Danes or Norsemen, so it lies low, concealed
from the sea by rising ground, gradually sloping upwards for a mile,
then descends to the summit of the aforesaid precipitous crags. These
extend from the small fishing town of Hopeman (which now rejoices in a
branch railway connecting it with Burghead and Elgin) as far as the
little village of Covesea, or the Coissey as it is called in the old
records.[20] At this point the cliffs and seaweed-covered rocks end
abruptly, or rather, the cliffs leave the shore and form a great
horse-shoe enclosing a wilderness of bent-covered sandhills—a Paradise
for rabbits—curving round a beautiful bay of fine white sands, which
form a most delightful shore for young bathers.
Many a gleesome hour did we spend there in happy days long, long ago,
rejoicing in the brine-laden breezes. With childish awe we looked to the
Beacon which at high tide seemed to rise from the waters off the further
end of the bay, and which marked the treacherous Black Skerries, so
dangerous to shipping until a tall lighthouse was erected on a solitary
cliff rising from the sandhills just opposite the Skerries, and now its
ruby and diamond flashes gleam far over the Firth to warn seamen against
venturing too near.
Naturally our never-ending pleasure centred in the caves. Some are
always accessible in every stage of the tide, others can only be reached
when the receding waters suffer us to pass certain headlands; and to be
hemmed in by the tide at certain points involves a good many hours’
detention, though happily no risk of drowning. Indeed in most of the
little bays a tolerably expert scrambler can contrive to gain the summit
by carefully following natural fissures, several of which have now been
artificially improved, so as to afford secure foothold. One of those is
known as “the lummie” or chimney, suggesting a very steep and narrow
way. Many long years ago, my father was here held captive by the tide;
and a flight of roughly hewn steps, cunningly zig-zagged up the face of
the cliff, show how he thenceforth secured access to the shore he so
dearly loved.
[Illustration:
_C. F. Gordon Cumming._
THE BATHING-PLACE, COVESEA.
]
Many a time have I scrambled up and down it, but it was not till very
recently that I had to prove its true value in the hour of need. Of
course, in order to enjoy a leisurely walk, especially if sketching is
the order of the day, it is wise to secure an outgoing tide, and so
avoid the risk of unpleasant adventures. By neglecting this precaution,
or rather by rashly assuming from the appearance of the seaweed-covered
rocks that the tide was receding, I narrowly escaped being held prisoner
for a most inconvenient spell.
Nothing doubting, I made my way to perhaps the only bay from which at
high water there is positively no means of escape, and, climbing a sandy
hillock, entered a cave known as “the Sculpture Cave,” by reason of
certain rude carvings on its rocky walls, and was soon deeply engrossed
in securing drawings of these.
My sketching-materials being somewhat bulky, I was happily escorted by a
trusty helper, who, after duly inspecting the interior of the cave,
chanced to look out, and exclaimed in dismay “The tide is coming in
fast!” It was too true, and though we were in no danger, I knew that
anxiety would be caused should we not return for so many hours. Without
a moment’s delay, after hastily packing the sketches, we ran along the
sandy bay to the projecting crag which closed it in on the side nearest
Covesea.
That crag has been hollowed by the ceaseless action of the waves, and
forms one of the finest caves, with three great arches, two of which
face the sea. We entered by the third, hoping to be able to pass out by
one of the others, but though we quickly took off our boots and
stockings, hoping to be able to wade, we were too late—already the water
was far too deep. I thought we were effectually trapped, when, to my
joy, my companion observed a fourth, very low, opening on the further
side, which neither he nor I ever remembered having noticed before. By
stooping very low, we found we could just make our way along the little
passage, and were soon safe beyond that crag. But we had still a
considerable distance to scramble over the slippery rocks, sometimes
above our knees in water, ere reaching “the lummie,” and right
thankfully we climbed that steep rock-stair, and found ourselves safe on
the summit, where we could rest a while on banks of heather and
crowberry.
Thence, an hour later, I watched great crested waves breaking on the
shore, while the rocks along which we made our way were more than six
feet under water. Beyond the successive distances of wave-worn cliff lay
the headlands of Hopeman and Burghead, whence the fleet of herring boats
were starting for their night of hard toil. And far in the distance Ben
Wyvis rose blue above the two Sutors which form the entrance to Cromarty
Bay. Concerning these, there is a legend to the effect that in days of
old, a sutor, or cobbler, sat on each headland, and as they had only one
awl between them, they skilfully threw it backwards and forwards across
the Firth.
Very charming is the walk all along the top of the cliffs, peering down
into their dark recesses or watching the endless changes of light and
colour on the wide ocean, while now and again resting on the brow of
some specially attractive crag. These in springtime are rosy with
delicate sea-pinks nestling among grey lichens, and in autumn they glow
with tufts of rich purple heather, contrasting with the vivid green of
the luxuriant crowberry with its little, hard, glossy black berries, the
search for which wiles away many a lonely hour for the laddies who herd
the nimble black-faced sheep.
A stranger needs to walk warily, for here and there deep narrow chasms
are partly hidden by the close growth of plants; and it would be easy to
slip into one of these as into an upright tomb, where only after many
days some herd-lad might discover the too venturesome wanderer.
In some places the rocks are strangely indented with deep, water-worn
holes, only divided from each other by sharp ridges, very unpleasant to
the foot. Each hollow is a little cistern where the falling spray or
rain collects as in a cup. Some of the rocks on the sea-level are
literally like a gigantic honeycomb, whose cells are pot-holes, each
large enough to contain a big cannon-ball, or to do serious damage to
the unwary walker whose foot slips on that unattractive surface.
The higher ledges of this singularly perforated rock are closely covered
with grey and bright yellow lichens, and gold or brown mosses and green
ferns nestle in every crevice.
Another curious feature of this coast is its changeableness. Not only is
there the variety of finding some bays of the finest shell-strewn sands,
while perhaps the very next turning brings us to an expanse of great
water-worn boulders, exhausting to clamber over, but these rock ridges,
which seem to be the accumulation of ages, are really subject to
ceaseless change with every wintry storm. Sometimes they are so piled up
as to render the shore almost impassable, and perhaps by the following
spring the sportive waves have rolled them all back to the ocean depths.
What days of unclouded happiness those shores recall! Days when the
finding of a tiny scarlet shell was a well-spring of delight; or when,
each provided with a rusty old sickle and a creel,[21] we followed the
receding tide to search for such crabs as might be lurking in the rock
pools or ledges, concealed by the heavy fringe of tangle. It mattered
little that our treasures were rarely appreciated by our elders. The
excitement of capturing them with skill, so as to avoid a nip of their
claws, lent them a flavour far excelling that of the finest “partans”
brought by old Meg the fishwife, from rocks far beyond our reach.
These expeditions were not lacking a spice of possible adventure, for
the sea-weed made the rocks exceedingly slippery, and it was often
difficult to avoid sliding into the deep rock pools, many of which,
though not larger than a bath, would have taken us far overhead.
Well do I remember our mischievous glee on one occasion when a very
romantic lady, much addicted to writing poetry, but also guilty of the
folly of wearing a good deal of rouge, persuaded my father to escort her
one lovely summer evening on to the rocks, when, just as she was
exclaiming on the beauty of one of these pools fringed with golden weed,
her foot slipped, and she disappeared headforemost! When she emerged, we
all contributed dry handkerchiefs as towels, and did our best to wring
her clothes, which nevertheless clung heavily and chill, making the walk
home slow and exhausting. But the point of the story lay in the unlucky
fact that though the lady’s first care was to dry her face, she only
made matters worse, for the wet paint merely changed its position, and
leaving her cheeks of an unwonted pallor, settled in a rich glow on her
very prominent nose; an incident which was not likely to escape
keen-eyed young folk, though the lady herself remained in happy
ignorance thereof.
[Illustration:
_C. F. Gordon Cumming._
HELL’S HOLE, HOPEMAN.
]
Descending by the steep cart-road from Covesea village to the caves, the
first point of interest is the Dripping Well, where the villagers leave
their tin pails standing all day to collect the clear, sparkling water
which drips drop by drop from an overhanging rock. Here, too, is a rude
cistern hollowed out of one great stone, which supplies impatient folk.
A well just above the bathing bay yields their regular supply, entailing
many a weary travel up that steep, grassy hill. Never was there greater
need to obey the good old counsel, “Set a stout heart to a stey brae,”
words of wisdom which come to our aid at many a stiff turn of life. The
dripping-well which supplies such excellent drinking-water is a good
deal further from the village, but people in those parts do not expect
to find everything ready to their hand, and the luxury of obtaining hot
and cold water in abundance, with no further trouble than turning a tap,
would seem to them a fairy-tale.
That steep cart-road over the well-worn rock is suggestive of many a
toilsome journey for weary horses and men, for by it the loads of heavy,
wet sea-weed cast up by the waves are brought to the fields
above—ocean’s gift of precious salts for fertilising the land. Following
its track, we enter a fine, large cave, which, in common with several
others, affords such secure shelter from wind and storm, that it is a
favourite camp for certain gipsies, or, as they are here called, cairds
or tinkers—a quiet, inoffensive tribe, who from time immemorial have
frequented these shores, coming and going as fancy dictates, and
selecting their cave for the time being, facing east or west, with due
regard to the prevailing wind.
Their favourite haunt, however, is the fine cave (a marvel of vivid
orange colouring) commonly called “Hell’s Hole,” an obnoxious name, said
to be a corruption of Hele’s Hale, which in some old Norse dialect
signified the head of the harbour. At that time an inlet of the sea
extended some distance inland where now all is green grass—one of the
many strange topographical changes all along this coast. The harbour now
lies considerably to the west, at the town of Hopeman. Hell’s Hole lies
at the westmost extremity of the wave-worn cliffs.
To these wandering folk, the cave with the unpleasant name possesses all
the charm of a loved home—an attraction which the most comfortable house
made with hands fails to exert. Well sheltered from all save a western
wind, they here find good grazing for their horses, good water for man
and beast, and plenty of dry whins within easy reach, wherewith to
kindle a blazing fire in the mouth of the cave. So here men, women, and
children assemble; they make their tin pails, cook, sleep, smoke, drink,
live and love or fight, as the case may be. Here they are born, and here
some return to die, but not many. The country folk say, “There’s a deal
of killing in a caird,” and a dead caird is rarer than the proverbial
dead donkey. Do you remember that very characteristic Scottish song,
“Donald Caird’s come again”? But he was a thief and a skilful poacher on
moor and loch, and these tinkers are noted for honesty.
Some of them have some knowledge of the medicinal properties of herbs,
and much prefer their own remedies to ours. We spoke one day to a poor
woman who was on the eve of her confinement, and was suffering acutely
from a running sore. She bemoaned her helpless condition, which
prevented her from going to a certain wood to search for a plant, which
she said would certainly heal the sore, but there was no use in sending
the bairns to gather it, as they would never be able to find it, so she
must e’en go on using the doctor’s stuff.
Many efforts have been made to induce the most promising of the younger
generation to settle down to regular work, but the gipsy blood always
asserts itself, and the yearning for the old wandering life returns. No
house made by human hands can ever have the same charm of old
association as their cave-dwellings.
We had a very pathetic instance of this craving when the aged mother of
the tribe, known to all the country as “Old Mary,” became so very ill
that she submitted to be taken to the excellent county hospital for
treatment. There she received such care and comfort as in all her life
she could never have dreamt of, but she pined, and was so miserable,
that at last, yielding to her entreaties, her people brought a cart with
straw, and therein carried her to the beloved cave which had been her
birthplace, that she might die in peace within sound of the waves. They
laid her on a layer of straw beside a crackling fire of whins, the very
smoke of which was fragrant to the dying woman, and there she lingered
for a while, rejoicing in her escape from the comfortable hospital.
Some of the far-receding caves are haunted by solemn, black
cormorants—“scarts” the country folk call them—which dart out with angry
cries, as if resenting our intrusion, and blue rock-pigeons also find
here a congenial home. It is strange how creatures adapt themselves to
circumstances. A little further along the coast, among the Culbyn
sandhills, where no crags or caves are available, these rock-pigeons
occasionally startle the ferreters, by darting out from the rabbit
burrows, in which they have made their nest.
Among the charms of many of these caves are the numerous water-worn
openings—circular windows—which tempt one to much scrambling in order to
peep out at the sea from new angles, and to catch new glimpses of
richly-coloured crag. Passing through the first cave of which I spoke,
and out by another entrance, we find ourselves at the foot of a great
solitary rock-mass, in form something like a gigantic body on two thick
legs. This in our childhood was called the Gull’s Castle, and a somewhat
similar mass further on was known as the Tailors’ Castle; each have
evidently once formed part of great caves which have fallen in, and
their fragments have been dispersed by the waves, or buried beneath the
sand.
Overlooking the Tailors’ Castle, and well raised above the sea, is a
small cave, in the centre of which a rudely squared stone receives the
water which slowly filters through the sandstone roof. In the cliff
beyond is a large cave somewhat difficult of access, the approach being
over huge, smooth boulders. Within, the deep-red colour is relieved by
glistening, green mosses. In this cave lived and died a solitary tinker,
who made a living by weaving bass matting from the coarse bent which
grows on the sandhills. Here, too, the body of a man drowned on the
Skelligs was found wedged into a cleft, where it had been carried by the
waves. Many a peaceful hour have I there spent, watching the slow and
silent influx of the tide, as it quietly stole onwards over weedy rock
and gleaming sand, till it bathed the base of the tall “Castle,” and the
pile of fallen rock and shingle below the cave.
Behind the Gull’s Castle, grassy hillocks nestle round the base of an
amphitheatre of rock, and, well-concealed by these, a low
artificially-squared entrance marks a small cave known as Sir Robert’s
stable—a well-founded tradition being that here in the days of Jacobite
trouble, Sir Robert Gordon was in the habit of concealing his best
horses, so that when “the Rebels” came to Gordonstoun to requisition his
steeds, they found only common cart horses.
The stable cave is now merely a dark, damp place, very different from
most of the neighbouring breezy caves, daily washed by the green waves;
but it was then probably in better order. The front was artificially
built up, so as to leave only a small doorway with a peep-hole above the
door, from which watchers within could guard the approach in times of
danger—only the hinges of the old door now remain. According to
tradition there was in those days an underground passage thence all the
way to Gordonstoun House—a full mile—but if such ever existed, all trace
of it has long since become impassable.
It was not for live stock only that the cave afforded a secure
hiding-place. In those days when smuggling was so much in fashion, the
facilities offered by such a shore as this were not likely to be
overlooked. Consequently even among old family documents of some of the
neighbouring gentry, letters have been found proving very plainly how
many lovers of good wine, brandy, and tobacco, profited by all chances
of landing their share of cargoes which had contrived to elude the
obnoxious excise duties.
Among the old papers of Sir Archibald Dunbar of Duffus was found the
following tell-tale letter to one of his ancestors, written in 1710 by
William Sutherland, merchant in Elgin:—
“I have ventured to order Skipper Watt, how soon it pleases God he
comes to the Firth, to call at Caussie, and cruise betwixt that and
Burgh-head until you order boats to waite him. He is to give the half
of what I have of the same sort with his last cargo, to any having
your order. Its not amiss you secure one boat at Caussie as well as
the burgh boats. The signall he makes will be, all sails furled,
except his main topsaile, and the boats you order to him are to lower
their saile when within muskett shott, and then hoist it again; this,
least he should be surprised with catch-poles. He is to write you
before he sails from Bordeaux, per Elgin post.”
In later years, smuggling here and in other parts of the Moray Firth
seems to have increased to so serious an extent as to call for special
inquiry, and a letter from the Lord President of the Court of Session
was read at a meeting of the Justices in Elgin, wherein he expressed his
hope that no gentlemen (whatever their connection with, or tenderness
for the unhappy smuggler might be) will be so impudently profligate as
to attempt to screen these cutthroats.
“Such an attempt” he says, “requires more than an ordinary degree of
courage and wickedness; the guilty person cannot hope to remain
unknown; the Minutes of the Court must record his infamy, nor is it to
be expected by him that the character which by such practices he may
purchase shall remain confined to his own country; the common post
can, by an Extract of the Minutes, convey his fame to Edinburgh, from
whence it may be communicated to the whole kingdom.”... “This mean,
shameful course to destruction must be prevented, or our unhappy
country must be undone. Make my compliment to every one who can lay
his hand on his heart and say he does not deserve the title of RASCAL,
and believe me to be, etc.
DUNCAN FORBES.”
That turning king’s evidence might have involved rascality of a more
contemptible form does not seem to have occurred to this zealous
upholder of the law. Doubtless such illicit stores may in some cases
have had to be hidden for a considerable period ere a safe opportunity
arose for transporting them to their destination, and in some cases it
may have been necessary to trust largely to the honour of the country
folk, who might very well have discovered and appropriated the hid
treasure.
Hence, in the interior of the “Sculpture Cave,” which stands well above
high-water mark, thus forming a very secure storehouse, there is
inscribed on the rock in large, well-cut letters, this ban—
CURSED BE THEY Y^T PLINDER
with the initials JH, the date Mar. 1655 or 1677, and a peculiar
ornamental scroll. Further in the interior, the same date and scroll is
repeated with the well-cut name JHorn. Curiously enough, I find that in
1672 James Horne was minister of Elgin. Was it he who here reminded his
outlying flock of the sin of theft, and had he any personal interest in
the safety of hidden treasure?
That cave, which is entered by a double mouth, seeming as though it must
have been artificially squared, has been a favourite haunt of many
successive generations, and is the only one on which they have left
their rude designs. Unfortunately, the rock is of so friable a character
that it crumbles at a touch, and the marvel is that any of its very
primitive sculptures should still be discernible, more especially as
with lamentably bad taste many visitors have proved their own hopeless
vulgarity by deeply cutting their own or their friend’s name or
initials, generally in letters so large, that it now requires careful
observation to trace out the fainter carvings so interesting to the
archæologist.
The last time I visited the cave, I took the trouble to note the most
offensively conspicuous of these names, with the intention of publishing
them for public indignation; but fortunately for the culprits, a sudden
gust of wind carried away my paper while I was subsequently sketching
from the summit of the crags.
[Illustration:
_C. F. Gordon Cumming._
THE SCULPTURE CAVE, COVESEA.
LOOKING TO HOPEMAN, BURGHEAD, CROMARTY, AND BEN WYVIS.
]
(How truly witty was the ironic courtesy of the Dowager Duchess of
Athol, who, finding it impossible to prevent visitors to her lovely
grounds at Dunkeld from scribbling their names on her favourite
summerhouse and elsewhere, had an attractive white board put up, with a
notice that the Duchess would be much obliged if visitors would kindly
write their names on this board—a request which was generally complied
with, under the impression that it was complimentary. Of course the
board was washed clean by next morning, and the woodwork of the
summerhouse was spared.)
Of the inscriptions, one bears date 1370, but the designs are
undoubtedly prehistoric. Such are the fish fourteen inches long, and the
curious symbol which, for want of a better name, is, I believe, known to
antiquarians as “the spectacles.” Another is “the looking-glass,” which
figures in so many stories of divination in the old folklore.
Others seem to be simply the rude symbols of three fishes, double
crescents, and curiously blended double triangles, also crosses and an
hour-glass, all of which have their counterpart among the rude
sculptures in the caves of Fifeshire. One, however, is, I believe,
peculiar to this cave, namely two figures within a shrine, the whole
fifteen inches high. It has become much less distinct within my own
memory.
Strange indeed are those traces, faint but unmistakable, of the
handiwork of these long-forgotten people. Yet lingering survivals from
heathen times are scarcely yet wholly extinct among us; and the
neighbouring fishing towns of Hopeman and Burghead have happily retained
some picturesque customs directly linking this prosaic nineteenth
century with those ancient days when fire-worship and well-worship here
prevailed.
Thus at Burghead on New Year’s Eve, reckoned according to old style, the
old ceremony of Burning the Clavie is still kept up. The fisher-folk and
seamen assemble, as they have done for unknown centuries, and make a
portable bonfire, formed of half an old tar-barrel filled with firewood,
and securely attached to a long handle. Though a nail may now be used
for this purpose, it may on no account be struck with an iron tool, but
is driven in with a stone. Nor may a modern lucifer match be used to
ignite it, but a burning peat, and when once ablaze, the strongest man
present is told off to the honour of carrying the Clavie round the old
part of the town, regardless of the streams of boiling tar, which of
course trickle all down his back. Should he stumble or fall, the omen
would be held unlucky indeed both to the town and to himself.
When the first man is tired out, a second succeeds him in this post of
honour and perhaps a third, and a fourth, till the circuit of the town
is completed. Formerly the vessels in harbour were likewise thus
safeguarded for the year. Thus is a direct link with the ancient Yule
Fire Festival still kept up.
At Hopeman, the “Holy Well” (though now only called the Brae-mou Well)
continued till very recently to be a favourite gathering-place on May
morning and on Hallowe’en (the spring and autumn festivals), for it was
firmly believed that at those times the well had healing powers for
those who reverently drank its waters, washed therein (in a very
modified sense), and left a small gift for the spirit of the well.
A little further inland, on my father’s estate of Dallas, it is an
undoubted fact that so recently as about sixty years ago, one of the
farmers having a murrain in his cattle, actually sacrificed one of his
oxen as a burnt-offering to the offended spirit of the disease.
Speaking of cattle, I must record a good story told us by the Rev.
Richard Rose, D.D., who in his later years was minister of Drainie (near
Gordonstoun), namely, that when he was appointed to Dallas as his first
charge, he knew an old man who remembered a celebrated “cattle-lifter,”
who was considered by his neighbours to be a very pious man, because,
before setting out on a cattle-lifting raid in the laich or low county
of Moray, he laid his blue bonnet on the ground, knelt down on it, and
prayed that the Almighty would keep him from robbing the fatherless and
the widow, and would guide him to the flocks of rich folk, such as Duff
o’ Dipple![22]
CHAPTER IV
Gordonstoun—A Glorious Playground—The Great Picture—The Dungeons—The
Charter Room—Old Letters—Ecclesiastical Censures—Successive
Lairds—Window-tax.
And now to turn to that beloved old grey home which Cosmo Innes
described as “the ghostly old palace of Gordonstoun.” Ghostly it well
might be, could its very numerous builders appear to give us an inkling
of all the changes it has undergone since those remote days ere drainage
was thought of, and its site, known as the Bog of Plewlands, was a low,
unhealthy swamp, but one which for security and concealment from the
sea, owing to the rising ground, aided by belts of oak and fir wood, was
selected by the Marquis of Huntly as a desirable site on which to build
a strong keep. It was part of the marsh which bordered the Loch of
Spynie, and which in rainy seasons was invariably flooded, so that the
vaulted chambers of the lower story were at any time liable to
inundation.
Marshland seems to have been greatly in favour in those troublous times,
for the site of old Gordon Castle, near Fochabers, now richly cultivated
land, was anciently called “The Bog of Gight,” and amongst the
miscellaneous papers of Gordonstoun are numerous letters to both
Cummings and Gordons from the old Dukes of Gordon, simply dated from
“the Bog.”
[Illustration:
_C. F. Gordon Cumming._
GORDONSTOUN PRIOR TO 1900.
]
With the exception of the vaulted base, little, if any, of that ancient
stronghold now remains, for each successive generation has altered and
added to it. At one time it resembled an old French castle, and must
have been a very stately house, embosomed in noble old trees. One of its
owners, having been educated in Holland, surrounded it with straight
terraces, avenues, and canals. Then the Sir Robert Gordon generally
known as “the Wizard,” pulled down the middle of the old house and built
the present centre, leaving the wings as they were, with turrets at the
corners of the steep roof of grey stone slabs.
That describes the exterior of the house as it continued till within the
last few years, when, alas! in the course of extensive internal
improvements, the venerable slabs were ruthlessly broken by careless
workmen, and replaced by modern slates. The long drawing-room, measuring
60 feet by 22, has seven tall windows, each 9 feet 6 in. by 4 feet, and
the dining-room, 44 by 24 feet, has four tall windows. Not content with
very heavy wooden frames, each of these upstairs windows was formerly
protected by heavy iron staunchions. Of course all those on the ground
floor were likewise guarded, and a most quaintly varied and irregular
series they are.
At least one large window, still partially built up, recalls the
lamentable tax on windows, which compelled so many people of small means
to shut out the light of heaven. To this day in many old houses, dummy
windows, half or wholly built up, are an abiding protest against that
unwise legislation, finally repealed only in 1851.
Just outside the house, on one side, are two old buildings in which we
delighted. One was a tall, conical white dove-cot (somewhat resembling
the dove-cots of Egypt), thirty feet in height, and constructed to
contain the nests of a multitude of pigeons.
The other was known as the Round Square—a title which sounds paradoxical
till you remember that all farm offices are called “the Square,” and the
peculiarity of these, which were used as stables, with an upper story of
rooms, was that they form a perfect circle, enclosing about an acre of
ground, which is laid out in a regularly concave pavement, in the very
centre of which a round stone lies in a hollow on the top of a low
pillar. When this stone is dropped into the hollow, the thud seems to
run right round the circle, forming a perfect echo.
Within the house, in and under the older parts, most dreary dungeons
told not only of sorrowful prisoners of war, but also of barbarously
harsh treatment of tenants and other neighbours.
And in the more modern centre, curiously constructed secret stairs and
hiding-places are abiding memorials of turbulent times, when kinsfolk of
the laird himself had to seek sanctuary within the walls of the great
house. Thus in my father’s dressing-room, two planks in the floor could
be lifted and a flight of narrow stone steps led to a hiding-place
ventilated only by a small eye-light opening into one of the courts. In
a room occupied by one of my brothers, a door like a cupboard concealed
a stone stair leading to one of the little turrets, and to the roof. In
another room is an ordinary-looking cupboard, but beneath its lower
shelf is a spring-bolt, by touching which the back of the press opens,
and reveals a dark recess in which six or eight people can stand.
The most curious of all these hiding-places was entered from the ground
floor of the west wing, where a movable stone in the pavement could be
lifted and a refugee (or prisoner) descended to a long, narrow cell in
the thickness of the foundation wall. This led into a large space
wherein fifty or sixty people could hide.
But the real horror centred round the gruesome dungeons, especially one
called the “Water Dungeon,” in which, so recently as 1880, and perhaps
later, water has risen to the depth of a couple of feet, but which in
the undrained days must often have filled to the level of the
side-planks on which alone poor prisoners could rest. I remember the
heavy iron gate of one dungeon, and great locks, the key of one was ten
inches long. There was also a ponderous rusty iron bar with two heavy
shackles attached for legs of prisoners, and smaller ones for their
wrists and neck. There were also a few old man-traps.
[Illustration:
THE ROUND SQUARE, GORDONSTOUN.
]
When my grandfather succeeded to these estates everything was in a most
dilapidated condition, all movables (except the mass of old papers in
the charter-room) having been removed. So my elder brothers and sisters
remembered how when they came to this glorious playground, prior to
1830, the family lived in one of the side wings, for the whole centre
was uninhabitable: all the joists and rafters were bare, there were no
ceilings nor any plaster on the walls, no glass in any windows, so it
was the nesting-home of innumerable jackdaws and pigeons. Their sport
was to enter one of the great rooms very gently, that they might startle
the birds and see them fly out by the hundred.
I am afraid to say how many cart-loads of birds’-nests and refuse were
removed from those rooms when, in 1830, my father turned in a regiment
of workmen to make the house habitable. The upper story of fine rooms
over the great drawing-room had apparently never been floored, the great
space under the side roofs was unsafe, so half-a-dozen carpenters were
at work here for two years, besides glaziers, plasterers, plumbers,
painters, etc., ere the family could move into the central rooms. The
large, very handsome doors can scarcely have been of local manufacture;
they were probably imported from Italy, as were the many beautiful
cabinets and other furniture, which so quickly transformed the
long-neglected house into a home—a home which has ever since been
accumulating treasures from all ends of the earth, trophies of the
chase, savage ornaments, pictures, etc.
By far the most remarkable picture in the great drawing-room is a very
large one by Gavin Hamilton of “Andromache bewailing the death of
Hector,” while Helen of Troy stands at the foot of the bier in pitying
sympathy. The beautiful Duchess of Hamilton (afterwards Duchess of
Argyll, _née_ Elizabeth Gunning) stood for Helen; and strange to say,
that picture came into the market and was sold at Christie’s Auction
Rooms, where my grandfather, Sir Alexander, bought it, allowing it to
remain in London for a while on exhibition, and then bringing it to
Forres House, where it remained till Gordonstoun was renovated. He
little dreamt that in securing the portrait of the stately “Helen” he
was buying a family picture which would prove of such interest to all of
us, her descendants.
Even the regiment of workmen could not rout all invaders. Successive
swarms of bees had established themselves so securely in the high
pitched roof of the wings that it was impossible to dislodge them
without having recourse to smoke which was deemed unsafe, so the bees
continued in possession. They were, however, dislodged in the recent
extensive internal alterations, which included turning the waste space
within the high roofs into a series of excellent sleeping-rooms.
Heretofore that space was one of our favourite playgrounds. Stowed away
in a dark corner of one of these ghostly, gloomy roof-rooms (I cannot
call them attics, seeing they each ran round three sides of a court),
there lay an old coffin, which to our childish imagination was invested
with supernatural awe, and was supposed to be associated with some dark
tale of mystery. It was, however, only a shell, a piece of household
furniture, ever ready to receive any inmate, during the interval between
death and the manufacture of a permanent coffin. Apparently every great
house was also provided with a pall for use at its funerals, as the
public undertaker was only prepared to conduct the simple burial of the
townsfolk.
This accounts for a letter from a bereaved widow to Sir Ludovick Gordon,
dated January 1663, announcing that it has pleased the Lord to remove
her husband, the Laird of Newtoune, “from this lyffe, to that eternall.”
Therefore, writes the lady, “I do humbely entreat your honour for the
leine of your mort-clothe; for it is mor to his credit to have it, nor
the comone mort-clothe of Elgine, seing we expek sinderie of his friends
to be heire.”
[Illustration:
_Emery Walker, ph. sc._
_Andromache bewailing the death of Hector (the beautiful Duchess of
Hamilton as Helen of Troy)_
_Painted by Gavin Hamilton_
]
This curious old letter is one of a multitude preserved in the
charter-room, which is by no means the least interesting corner of the
house. It is a small chamber between thick stone walls. We enter by a
securely fastened door, opening off a narrow spiral stone stairway. Here
were piled thousands of musty, mouldy old manuscripts, the accumulation
of many generations, dating back to the reign of King David II.
The dusty shelves on which they lay heaped in the days of our childhood
fairly fell to pieces from sheer old age, and have been replaced by
substantial drawers of modern manufacture, wherein are stowed bundles
without number; while on a hanging shelf overhead are ranged a multitude
of old leathern bags, cunningly tied up with strips of leather, but all
containing manuscripts, the work of many busy hands, and the expression
of many an anxious thought, by eager, earnest men and women, whose very
names have long since been wholly forgotten. Here are public records,
letters concerning the movements of “the rebels,” and the claims of the
Church; letters on the encroachments of rivers, the draining of marshes,
the purchase of lands.
Here are political papers and family documents, cuttings from old
newspapers, account-books, long, intricate judicial cases, memoranda of
all sorts, half-written essays, carefully preserved letters, and even
some scraps of poetry, couplets which, albeit deemed heavy by us their
impatient descendants, were doubtless much esteemed by our ancestors.
Here are business letters from canny, close-fisted lairds, and here are
feminine notes which prove the Gordon ladies to have been abundantly
endowed with practical common-sense, and by no means lacking in “an eye
to the main chance.” There are wills and marriage-contracts, notably the
marriage-contract in French between Sir Robert Gordon and Louyse Gordon,
dated 22nd February 1613. There are letters from Charles I. and II.
There are permits to go and work plantations in New Jersey, and
indentures of Sir Ludovick Gordon’s son, binding himself apprentice to
Mr. Blaikwood, Edinburgh, Silk Mercer.
The fairly white paper on which they were inscribed has long since
turned yellow and brown from sheer old age; the ink has faded and is
well-nigh illegible, indeed in most cases only a long-practised eye,
aided by powerful glasses, can decipher the crabbed, contracted old
characters, with their strange and ever-varied spelling. In one charter
the name of Comyn is spelt five different ways. Some are written on
parchment, some in black letter.
To reduce such a mass of confusion to any sort of order long appeared an
utterly hopeless undertaking, but much was done by the widow of my
brother, Sir Alexander, and our cousin, Edward Dunbar-Dunbar of Sea
Park, whose researches were rewarded by many a curious glimpse into the
manners and customs of our forbears.[23]
A few specimens of these papers may prove interesting. For instance, now
that Lord Lovat’s Scouts have done such good work in the Transvaal, and
purpose being “Ready, Aye Ready” in time to come, it is curious to read
a letter from the celebrated Simon, Lord Lovat, to his kinsman, Captain
George Cumming, son of the Laird of Altyre, who had written to ask his
assistance in raising recruits for the Hanoverian army. Lord Lovat’s
loyalty was suspected, and he had been deprived of the command of his
own company of Clan Fraser, his men being drafted into other regiments.
But the old peer had not openly declared for the Jacobites, so he would
have helped his cousin had it been in his power.
He writes:—
“BEAUFORT, _1st March 1745_.
“MY DEAR CUSIN,—I received with vast pleasure the honor of your very
kind, polite, and oblidgeing well-writt letter, for which I give you
my most sincere, humble thanks.... I am extreamly sorry and troubled
that it is not in my power to serve you as I could wish ... but if it
was to save my life, I could not pitch this day upon half a dozen,
among all my common people, of the size that you desire, for there is
no country in Scotland so drained of men of size as mine is.”
He then alludes to his having been so unjustly deprived of his command,
and of having been compelled to give up
“my Company of a hundred men of my own, who had only engaged with me,
for the love they had to me as their Chief. And besides those that I
was oblidged to give in to make up my Lord Crawford’s regiment, now
Semple’s, there were fifty more Frasers in the other few Companys, so
that in Semple’s regiment, when they went out of Scotland, they had
two hundred Frasers in it, and out of the estate of Lovat and all of
them pretty handsome fellows about the size that you want, and fifty
of them above it, so that there is no such thing to be now seen as a
man of the size that you desire, among my common people, except it be
a few old married men.”
Lord Lovat, however, promises to do all in his power by bidding all his
bailies and chamberlains speak to all the gentlemen’s children of the
size required—
“And let them know the handsome offers you make; and it will oblidge
me mightily if they engage with you; and I will give them ane
obligation under my hand, to give them any tack of land that they are
capable of, when they come home with their discharge.”
Considering that the writer was seventy-eight years of age, his
postscript is worthy of record:—
“I beleive you will not be ill pleased to know that I have kept my
health better since the beginning of Jully last, than I have done
these thirty years past, and notwithstanding of this extraordinary
severe storm, that I do raly beleive that the like of it was never
seen in this country. _I take the cold bath every day, and since I
cannot go abroad, use the exercise of dancing every day with my
daughter and others_ that are here with me, and _I can dance as
cleverly as I have done these ten years past_.”
Two years passed by, and the active old dancer was led to execution on
Tower Hill.
Here is a royal letter, “From our Court at Falkland, 10th July 1633.” It
is from King Charles to James, Duke of Lennox, desiring that as Great
Chamberlain of Scotland, he will “visit, or cause visit, our Wardrobe
here, and make the master therof give an accompt and inventarie”
thereof.
The duke writes to his loving cousin, Sir Robert Gordon,
“Vice-Chamberlain of His Majestie’s Household in the Kingdom of
Scotland,” to depute him to fulfil this behest. He writes from Holyrood
Palace, which he calls the “Court at the Halyrudhouse.” He informs Sir
Robert that—
“owing to his necessary attendance on His Majestie’s person and His
other more weighty affairs, he has not leisure for this work and
accordingly deputes him as Vice-Chamberlain to visitt the said
Wardrobe, and make a full and perfect Inventory of the same, including
all such bedding and hangings and the like, as shall be found therein
requiring the Master of the Wardrobe to sett his hand ther-untill.”
In those days there were no British colonies as the natural destination
of the younger sons of great houses; it was therefore nowise remarkable
that such should enter trade as the most lucrative of professions.
Accordingly we here find the indentures of “George Gordoun, sone laufull
to Sir Lodovick Gordoun, Knight Barronett, as prentice to Mr. Robert
Blaikwood, merchand burgess of Edinburgh, whose shop is situated at the
east end of the Luckenbooths, whereby George Gordoun becomes bound
prenteise and servand to Mr. Blaikwood, to his airt and trade of
merchandizeing, and promises to serve his master leallie and truelie,
night and day, holyday and workday, in all things godlie and honest, and
shall not know nor heire of his master’s skaith, but shall reveal the
same to him and remedy it to his power.”
He promises never to absent himself from his master’s service without
special license, but should he do so, he vows to serve him “two dayes
for ilk daye’s absense efter the expyreing of thir indentors.”
Very quaint indeed are the exceedingly plain terms in which allusion is
made to matters of private moral life, such as do not usually enter into
business contracts; in relation to these, the young man undertakes, that
if it should happen him (as God forbid) to “comitt [any breach of the
seventh commandment] during the course of these ffyve yeirs,” he binds
himself to serve his master for three years extra, “in the same estate
as if he were bound prentise, Sir Ludovick Gordon being bound suertie
for him!”
Mr. Blaikwood on his part binds himself faithfully, “to instruct his
prenteise in all the poynts, pratiques, and ingynes of his trade of
merchandizeing, as well _without_ as _within_ the country, and to take
him once to London and once to Holland in the course of the ffyve
years.”
George Gordon must have got through his term of apprenticeship
satisfactorily, for we find a statement to that effect, duly signed by
Mr. Blaikwood, who next undertook the care of a younger brother, Charles
Gordon, who, however, could not brook the restraint of the dull little
shop in the Luckenbooths, with “bed and board” provided by the worthy
merchant, who found he could make nothing of the wild youth, and so
cancelled his indentures, whereupon he was bound prentice to a Writer to
the Signet, to learn the routine of a lawyer’s office, in the hope that
he might follow in the footsteps of his successful elder brother, Sir
John.
The elder brother seems to have been a promising and enterprising youth,
for we very soon find him starting with his Quaker cousin, Barclay of
Ury, to assist in the colonisation of New Jersey, “a tract of land in
America,” which had recently been purchased by William Pen of
Worminghurst, in the county of Sussex, and eleven partners. Glowing
accounts of the country had been received, but settlers were required to
till the ground, so in order to supply these, application was made to
Government for a grant of convicts. We accordingly find a document
headed, “_Ane list of the hundred prisoners_, in the Castle of Dunnottar
and under the Parliament House to be delyvered to Scott of Pitlochry,
_in order to their transportation to East Jersey_.”
While Sir Ludovick’s sons were serving their prenticeship at the little
shop in the Luckenbooths (so strange a contrast to the immense rooms of
their father’s great country house), their cousin Viscount Tarbat, son
of the Earl of Sutherland, went into partnership with Andrew Powrie,
druggist, John Dehen, glass-maker, and others, and took a lease of the
new Glasshouse in North Leith, where for many years they carried on
business as bottle-makers. Lord Tarbat duly remitted his bottle-making
accounts to Sir Ludovick, his trustee, so we know exactly what it cost
to make the bottles, and at what profit they were sold.
As a not very aristocratic resource for turning an honest penny, we may
next notice an advertisement in the Edinburgh papers for October 1760,
wherein Lady Murray offers for sale a quack “insect destroying” mixture,
“for effectually destroying that abominable vermin called the Bugs,”
which, if rightly applied, will undoubtedly cleanse this country of that
noxious vermin, with the whole sediment of them. To be had by applying
to Lady Murray, at her calendar-house in Weir’s Close in the Canongate,
who will show the performance of the same. This secret and infallible
mixture was purchased from a Jesuit for a considerable sum of money, by
a gentleman of distinction when on his travels in foreign parts. It is
offered for sale at seven shillings each Scotch pint. No less quantity
than a mutchkin is to be sold.
Very quaint are some of the revelations of family details. Here are
letters from Sir Ludovick’s third son John Gordon, who afterwards
received knighthood as an eminent lawyer, but who on arriving in London,
after a course of study at Utrecht, has to appeal to his father for
money to buy a “soot of cloaths to carrie me home”—and signs himself,
“Your sone and humble servant.”
Judging from the above, how exceedingly limited was the supply of ready
money at this young man’s disposal, it is curious to find a letter from
his stepmother to the young student, requesting him, ere he leaves
Utrecht, to buy her a necklace of fine pearls. She adds, “Let them not
be dear.” She was a widow with considerable private fortune; but, like
many persons who inflict troublesome commissions on their friends, she
omitted to supply ready money, but fears she must rest his debtor for a
while. She addresses him simply as “Sir,” but signs herself, “Your
affectionate Mother, Jean Stewart.”
“_P.S._—If there be anie lett book set out by our Deivyns, send me a
good one.”
This postscript, requesting the latest work on divinity, is a happy
corrective of the hankering after the frivolities of dress. It will be
observed that the lady (who was a daughter of Sir John Stewart of
Ladywell) continues to sign her maiden name, which would, according to
old Scots custom, be that eventually recorded on her tombstone.
Notwithstanding Dame Jean’s appreciation of theological books, the
ecclesiastical powers were by no means satisfied with her husband’s
laxity in church attendance. Consequently a formal remonstrance is
addressed to “the Right Worshipfull Sir Ludovick Gordoune off
Gordonstone,” stating that “the Synod att Elgin desire to take speciall
notice of his contempt of publick worship and of his withdrawing himself
from ordinances, which hath given a great scandal to the wholl land.” He
is, therefore, summoned to appear at the next presbyterial meeting, and,
if possible, vindicate himself.
The culprit having ignored the first summons, a second was sent to him,
to which he seems to have replied with a lack of befitting reverence,
for the Synod next despatched their officer to deliver to him a formal
summons to appear at Inverness and there answer for his subscribing of
“ane scandalous and sinfull protestatione against the Assemblie of
Murray.”
As he still failed to appear, the matter was referred by the irate
ecclesiastics to the Parliament assembled at Edinburgh, who inflicted on
the irreligious laird a fine of 3600 pounds Scots, which was paid in the
course of six months; but whether the culprit then amended his ways does
not appear.
Such fines would appear to have been a fruitful source of revenue, His
Majesty’s cash-keeper being ever on the alert to issue “letters of
horning” against all “withdrawers from public ordinances of religion,”
and very difficult it often was to shake off the persecution of these
meddlesome harpies.
Here is “the Petition of Dame Elizabeth Chrightan, Lady Douadger of
Frazer, unto the Right Honourable the Lords of His Majestie’s Privie
Counsell” protesting against the fine of £1833, 13s. 4d. Scots, decreed
against her on this pretext, before the Sheriff of Aberdeen. The old
lady represents that she was bred from her infancy under loyal and
regular parents, that she herself has never been at any Conventicle,
that her jointure house of Cairnbulg is three miles from any church, and
that as she has neither manservants nor horses, and is herself an aged,
“seiklie” person, she has not been able frequently to attend.
“But fearing that offence might be taken, she long ago took ane lodging
in the toune of Frazerburgh that she might the more conveniently wait
upon the public ordinances; where, ever since, she has been ane frequent
and constant hearer, and in particular, upon yesterday[24] last, did
take the Sacrament, as a testificat under the Bishop of Aberdeen’s hand,
heirwith produced, doeth testify. She therefore craves that their
Lordships will annul the decree, founded upon groundless mistakes.”
Methinks those “good old times” cannot have been an era of unmixed joy
even to the great folk, but still less to the poor, judging from the
records of even this one old house.
Evidently no one was too great to be really independent of
ecclesiastical censure or praise, for we find the first Sir Robert
carefully preserving a testimonial from the presbytery of Elgin, bearing
date A.D. 1646, setting forth that “since his residence among us, Sir
Robert Gordon hath bein a main advancer off the true religion, and a
great forderer and helpe in what concerned this present reformation; and
is weill affected to the church and peace of this country, and hath
yeelded full and constant obedience to all publick ordinances off the
Church.”
Let us glance at the history of the successive owners of Gordonstoun as
revealed by these voluminous documents.
The first Sir Robert Gordon was born A.D. 1580. He was the fourth son of
Alexander, Earl of Sutherland, by Lady Jane Gordon, daughter of the Earl
of Huntly. She had been previously married to James, Earl of Bothwell,
and was universally allowed to have all her life been a most virtuous
and excellent woman; consequently when, at the early age of twenty, she
was put away by Bothwell to make way for his marriage with Queen Mary,
she was wooed and won by the Earl of Sutherland, by whom she had five
sons and two daughters.
Bothwell’s ground for claiming to have his marriage with Lady Jane
annulled was that, being within the prohibited degrees of relationship,
he had never obtained a dispensation to sanction his marriage. Strange
to say, Lady Jane appears to have allowed this statement to pass
unchallenged, although the dispensation was actually in her own
possession, and has been found amongst the Sutherland archives at
Dunrobin.
She proved a careful mother, and trained her children in all goodness,
though they lost their father at a very early age. Her son Robert proved
to be “a youth of excellent parts” and a most accomplished scholar. He
was educated at the University of St. Andrews, and was then sent to
travel in France, whence he returned to London, to the Court of King
James VI., with whom, “by reason of his singular endowments and
remarkable affability,” he became a mighty favourite, and was appointed
one of the Gentlemen of the Bed Chamber, A.D. 1606, and was endowed with
a pension of two hundred pounds for life.
He likewise found favour with Charles I., who appointed him a member of
the Privy Council and Vice-Chamberlain; and also made him premier knight
baronet of the newly created order of Nova Scotia, an honour specially
devised as a reward to be conferred on gentlemen of good birth who
should assist in establishing a colony in that country.
In 1613, Sir Robert married Louyse, daughter of John Gordon, Dean of
Salisbury and Lord of Glenluce, by whom he had a large family. The
dean’s father combined the dignities of Bishop of Galloway and
Archbishop of Athens. Louyse was brought up with Queen Henrietta Maria.
At the age of sixty-three, Sir Robert deemed himself entitled to devote
his remaining years to the care of his own estates and his duty as tutor
at law to his nephew John, Earl of Sutherland; so being heartily wearied
and highly dissatisfied with the proceedings of those troublesome times,
he returned to his own country, and spent the remainder of his days “in
remarkable acts of benevolence.”
Travelling from London to the north of Scotland was in those days no
easy matter. So great was the expense and trouble of a journey by land,
especially for “a family man,” that it was deemed better to travel by
sea. Being deeply attached to his widowed mother-in-law, Geneweiwe Petaw
(whose skilful needlework he specially bequeathed to his “heyres male”),
“he persuaded her, though far stricken in age, to accompanie him with
his wyf and familie, took shipp at Gravesend 21st April and landed
safely at Cowsoe the 31st of May.”
Thus the journey which we now accomplish in about fifteen hours, then
took just forty days!
The old lady ended her days peacefully in her new home in the grey
north; and here, at the age of eighty-three, she died and was buried;
and the weather-worn stone which bears her name has recently been raised
from the threshold of the old church, and placed within its shelter,
where her name is also recorded on the monumental list of the principal
members of the family there interred.
[Illustration:
_C. F. Gordon Cumming._
A CORNER OF THE OLD ROOF, GORDONSTOUN.
]
Judiciously profiting by the difficulties of some of his neighbours, Sir
Robert contrived to build up for himself a very pretty estate. First he
purchased the lands of Drainie from the old family of Innes; then, from
Lord Huntly, he obtained the lands of Ogstoun and Plewland. Belornie,
Ettles, and Salterhill were added one by one, and the estate thus built
up was by Crown Charter under the Great Seal dated 20th June 1642,
united into a barony, and called the Barony of Gordonstoun.
This was no empty title: it carried with it certain privileges,
conferring on the holder rights of jurisdiction within his barony. He
had power over life and limb with “the right of pit and gallows.”[25]
The old Gallowshill at Altyre still tells of the days when a dempster
(_i.e._ hangman) was a necessary appendage to each great family, and
when offenders were hanged for very trivial causes. The pit wherein
culprits were drowned seems to have been chiefly reserved for women, as
there existed some prejudice against hanging a female thief.
At Gordonstoun the neighbouring Loch of Spynie acted as the pit, and one
of the trials recorded is that of Janet Grant, who being taken
red-handed in the act of extensive theft, was sentenced to be carried to
the said Loch, and there be drowned under water till she be dead. The
sentence was duly carried out, and Janet went down “evacuating curses on
her persecutors.”
Besides the care of his own property, Sir Robert was, as we have seen,
guardian of the young Earl of Sutherland—no sinecure, as it required a
strong hand and a clear head to protect the large interests involved
from the encroachments of the Mackays, Sinclairs, and other powerful
clans, with whom there were constant feuds; and we must remember that
Dunrobin was by no means so easy of access in those days as it is now.
Notwithstanding these various causes of anxiety, Sir Robert found some
leisure for peaceful pursuits, notably for the compilation of a very
curious _Genealogy of the Earls of Sutherland_, a volume which contains
many remarkable details of the times, and of the general condition of
the country. It was published about a hundred and fifty years after his
death, and is now very rare.
He commenced the formation of a very valuable library, which was largely
increased by his grandson, the so-called Wizard, who collected all
possible books on necromancy, demonology, alchemy, and other subjects.
Sir Robert died in 1656, and was succeeded by his son Sir Ludovick, who
enlarged the estate by the purchase of lands in the parish of Duffus,
and of the barony of Dallas from Robert Comyn of Altyre. His daughter
Lucy, however, married the said Robert Comyn in 1666; and in virtue of
this alliance, the lands, not only of Dallas, but the whole estate of
Gordonstoun, were left to her descendants, after a lapse of a hundred
and thirty years, by the last lineal baronet of the old race.
The Gordon methods of working for their own advantage did not find
favour with their neighbours, and a popular rhyme classed them with the
farmer’s worst enemies, namely the large beautiful yellow daisy which
choked the corn, and the hooded crows which stole eggs and young
chicks:—
“The gowd, the Gordon, and the hoodie craw
Are the three worst ills that Moray ere saw.”
But whatever farmers thought, the “gowd” was a joy to us. I remember
when all the fields near Gordonstoun were a feast of colour by reason of
the abundance of scarlet poppies, golden gowans (_i.e._ daisies), blue
cornflowers, lilac corn-cockles, purple and yellow vetch, and many
another dainty flower. But, alas! for the destruction of natural beauty
all over the world before the improvements of cultivation. As in
tropical lands, miles of glorious forests with their fairy-like wealth
of tree-ferns and blossoming creepers must utterly perish to make way
for the planter with his prim little tea or coffee bushes, so in our own
little isle must all the lovely wild flowers which rank as weeds be
exterminated ere the farmer is satisfied with his clean land. So now in
those same fields you may seek till you are weary ere you can gather one
handful of wild blossoms.
In the same way in many moorland districts where sheep abound, the glory
of purple heather is a memory of the past in consequence of their close
grazing—in fact it is only within the belt protected by fences on either
side of the railway that purple bell heather and the delicate “blue bell
of Scotland” flourish undisturbed, so that the railway companies have
become almost the sole preservers of our native flowers.
Sir Ludovick died in 1688, and his son Sir Robert reigned in his stead.
This is the famous so-called Wizard, a name and character which in those
days were readily bestowed on any man of scientific tastes. Sir Robert
was undoubtedly a learned man. He had travelled much in foreign lands,
and is believed to have studied at one of the Italian colleges where the
occult sciences were much cultivated, so he was of course credited with
dabbling in astrology and necromancy.
That he was skilled in chemistry and mechanics is certain, and much of
his time was devoted to the perfecting of a wonderful nautical pump,
which was to prove a priceless boon to the navy. Among the papers in the
old charter-room are sundry letters from the celebrated Mr. Samuel Pepys
on the subject of this pump. The Lords of the Admiralty do not, however,
appear to have recognised its merits, for no encouragement was ever
given to the inventor, whose descendant notes in 1740, that “this
machine for raising water on board ships still remains a secret with the
family.”
Sir Robert seems to have kept up a scientific correspondence with
various philosophers of the day, and probably rather encouraged the
popular belief in his power as a magician, which ensured him an immunity
from idle visitors. Doubtless the red glare from the furnace in his
laboratory was often seen at night by passing peasants, who interpreted
it in their own fashion, and so came to look on the Laird of Gordonstoun
and his mysterious doings with the awe due to the supernatural.
Of a studious man who busied himself with his books during the sunny
hours, strange reports might be raised, and pass uncontradicted, so it
was whispered that Sir Robert eschewed the sunlight to conceal the fact
that in its brightest glare he walked alone, no faithful shadow bore him
company. For he was believed to have studied the black art in a school
where the devil himself was master, claiming for his fee that now and
again one of the students should become his own for ever.
It was said that Sir Robert, like the rest, had signed this awful
compact, and when lots were cast to decide who must be the victim of the
year, the lot fell on him. But the canny young Scot proved a match for
Satan, for as he stood ready to secure the last student who passed out
of the hall as his lawful prize, Sir Robert pointed to his shadow on the
wall and bade him take that fellow. Thus was the devil cheated of his
dues. And so Sir Robert was thenceforth a shadowless man; and as he rode
forth in the sunlight, his horse, his hat, whip, even his spurs, cast
clear shadows, but he himself had none!
The peasants firmly believed that Sir Robert’s magic art enabled him to
defy all natural laws. They told how one frosty morning he had occasion
to drive to some place along the coast, but being too impatient to make
the usual wide circuit round the shores of the Loch of Spynie (which in
his time was a broad sheet of water, extending very nearly to
Gordonstoun), he determined to drive right across the loch, which was
covered only with a thin film of ice, the growth of one night. Bidding
his servant look straight before him and on no account turn his head,
Sir Robert urged his four fiery steeds, and drove lightly over the ice,
which bore him safely till, just as he reached the further shore—a
distance of four miles—the servant, inquisitive as Lot’s wife, looked
back, and beheld a great black raven perched on the back of the
carriage. As he turned, the foul fiend—for it was himself in the
likeness of the bird—flew off with heavy wing, and immediately the hind
wheels of the carriage sank, and it needed all the force of the good
team to extricate it.
Having thus proven his human servant unreliable, Sir Robert sought means
to secure a better one; and the people told with bated breath how, after
keeping the fires in his stone vault burning day and night for seven
years, he had succeeded in creating a salamander—a fire-imp—which,
dwelling in the furnace, was thenceforth ever ready to do his
unrighteous work.
Finally, a terrible story was told of how on two successive nights Sir
Robert and his boon companion, the parson of Duffus, were hunted by the
fiend, mounted on a jet-black horse, and attended by hell dogs, and both
were captured, their dead bodies being left behind.
If it seems strange that such tales could have found ready credence, we
must remember that even the civil and ecclesiastical teachers had the
firmest belief in witchcraft. Just a hundred years after the time of
“Ill Sir Robert,” as the Wizard was generally called, the Rev. Lachlan
Shaw, in writing his history of Moray, A.D. 1775, affirms that _he has
often been present_ when, four times in the year, all persons above the
age of twelve years were solemnly sworn that they would practise no
witchcraft, charms or spells; and we know what a multitude of poor old
women were done to death under such accusations. In Scotland alone the
number is estimated at fully four thousand, while in England three
thousand were thus put to death during the sitting of the Long
Parliament, and as many more soon afterwards. In Germany and Switzerland
the proportion of victims was even larger.
So we need not wonder that the credulous folk believed the neighbourhood
of Gordonstoun to be haunted by evil spirits, summoned by the laird, so
that for many a long year it was deemed dangerous to pass the house
after dark. Even the Memorial Chapel, which four years after his death
was erected by his widow, Dame Elizabeth Dundas, above his grave, on the
site of the ancient kirk of Ogston, was long shunned as “uncanny,”
albeit consecrated in the name of St. Michael and all good angels, to
whom also was dedicated St. Michael’s Well, near the house. There were
also two good wells within the house, a very needful matter in the olden
troublous times.
Notwithstanding his scientific pursuits, Sir Robert proved himself a
very good man of business in the management of his estates, to which he
made considerable additions. Moreover, his own two marriages and those
of his children all tended to strengthen the family position in the
north.
By the marriage of his daughter Lucy with David Scott of Scotstarvet,
the Dukes of Portland, the Earls of Moray, and the late Viscount Canning
all claim descent from this famous “Wizard of Gordonstoun,” who seems to
have really been one of the most polished and agreeable men of his day.
The next baronet—also Sir Robert—was a mere child at the time of his
father’s death. He held the estates for seventy-one years, _i.e._ till
1772, a long reign marked only by cruelty and oppression. He was a
gloomy and austere man, and to judge from his portrait in Innes House, a
man of most unprepossessing appearance. It is said that the artist
entreated his unattractive sitter to look as cheerful as possible; so it
is commonly said, “If this was his pleasantest expression, what must
have been his frown?”
And yet the frown must have been his familiar expression, for his life’s
history is one long story of evil. A very short experience of military
life (when in his early youth he joined Lord Mar in the rebellion of
1715) sufficed to sicken him of the war, and he thenceforward lived
almost entirely in his sombre, old, half-renovated house, most part of
which was disused to avoid the payment of a heavy window-tax.
This much-detested laird seems to have been wholly occupied in lawsuits
with his neighbours, and correspondence with lawyers, varied with
tyrannous oppression of his unfortunate tenants and a good deal of
smuggling. The latter was considerably facilitated by his receiving a
large portion of his rents in the form of grain and other farm produce,
which was shipped from Covesea or Burghead in large boats, and thence
transported to Inverness, the purchasers bringing in exchange wines,
spirits, clothing, groceries, and all other things needful.
But it was rumoured that oftentimes vessels not recognised by the
Government contrived to deposit cargoes in the caves of Covesea, whence
they were transported to Gordonstoun by a long, subterraneous tunnel.
Whether the latter statement be fact or fiction, I cannot say. If such a
tunnel did exist (nearly two miles in length) it has now fallen in, and
even when, more than half a century back, my eldest brothers attempted
to explore it with torches, by following the traditional entrance from
the cave known as “Sir Robert’s Stables,” they were only able to go a
very short distance. The “Stables,” however, was undoubtedly used, as a
place of concealment, where horses were kept in safety during any time
of special alarm, when royalists or rebels were likely to come and seize
them.
The long list of Sir Robert’s interminable and vexatious litigations
with his neighbours was not confined to the little lairds (some of whom
he well-nigh ruined), but included such powerful names as the Duke of
Gordon, William, Lord Braco, Dunbar of Duffus, and above all, Lady
Elizabeth Sutherland, whose lands of Dunrobin, together with the
earldom, were claimed by Sir Robert on the death of her father. A very
lengthy and expensive suit, which was carried to the House of Lords, and
in which all the great legal men of the day took an active part and keen
interest, was at length decided in favour of the lady, and it was
determined that the Sutherland peerage could go in the female line.
After this Sir Robert, soured and impoverished, made himself more
obnoxious than ever to all around him.
When this strange litigious mortal could find no other means of
harassing his neighbours, he took advantage of a strong wind from the
east, and proceeded to plough up a tract of worthless soil, or rather
sand, in order that it might be blown all over the fields of Dunbar of
Newtown, who, however, was able to repay the delicate attention with
interest by ploughing a similar tract in a westerly gale. Pleasant,
loving neighbours these!
This genial landlord turned his house into a regular prison, into whose
horrid dungeons men and women were cast for the most trivial offences,
and sometimes for no offence at all. To his wife, Dame Agnes, daughter
of Sir William Maxwell of Calderwood, and the mother of his five
children (a daughter and four sons) he was by no means a faithful
spouse; and a skeleton, with long, fair, silken tresses, which was found
by my grandfather in one of the lowest dungeons, is said to have been
that of the wife of one of his poorer neighbours, who would not respond
to his attentions. Another equally resolute lady was confined for many
days in the horrible water-dungeon, so called because of its sympathy
with the overflow from the neighbouring marches.
Thanks to a memorial presented to the Court of Session in 1740 by the
friends of Alexander Leslie, tenant of the farm of Windy-hills of
Gordonstoun, we have an authentic record of a few of the dark stories of
cruel oppression connected with this gruesome dungeon.
As Laird of the barony of Gordonstoun, Sir Robert was empowered to hold
courts for the trial and punishment of offenders within his barony; and
this power he used most tyrannically and unscrupulously, rarely
referring any case to the decision of a regular judge, but seizing
whosoever displeased him, and causing them to be thrown into pits and
vaults, as is shown in this memorial, which sets forth how, by Sir
Robert Gordon’s constant acts and conduct in the shire of Moray,
especially among his own tenants, he is a known oppressor, and “it is
not possible to enumerate the whole instances of slavery he puts poor
tenants to.” Seizure of horses and fines are recorded; as, for instance,
when William Macgowan, sometime Sir Robert’s tenant in Dallas, was fined
in forty pounds Scots for not spreading three heaps of burnt ground. We
must, however, recollect that the pound Scots was only equivalent to
about eightpence of our present coinage.
Those who imagine that in the good old times there was no law against
trespassers may be interested by a remarkable notice of Sir Robert’s
physical strength, preserved in a note from the Rev. Alexander Murray,
who tells of much sickness among his parishioners, so that “severats are
daily dieing, and we sometimes bury at the rate of three a-day. Sir
Robert, I am told, was like to have gone to the Elysian fields, but _has
so far recovered as to be able to thrash John Gow’s wife, for travelling
on his forbidden ground_.”
But far more serious are the records of imprisonment. Thus, for some
trifling offence was Alexander Lesslie, tenant of Windy-hills, dragged a
prisoner to Gordonstoun and put in a prison, “which, in place of being a
civil prison” (_i.e._ a debtors’ prison), “is a most nasty dark vault
with an iron grate, having neither door, window, nor chimney, and where
he lies in a cold and most miserable condition, and is in much danger of
his life; for if it were in the winter time, he behoved to have a foot
or two of stones _for keeping him from the water, because the vault is
under ground about two feet_.”
Numerous other cases are cited as “facts which can all be proven and
made such use of as the lawyer thinks fit.”
“Janet Grant, servant to James Forsyth in Crosshill, was, without any
reason, put into the pit of Gordonstoun, and died soon after being
released.”
“James Marshall, James Robertson, and William Robertson, three skippers
in Covesea, a fisher-town of Sir Robert’s, were arrested and kept in the
stocks a whole night, without any just cause assigned, and had not the
privilege of a house, but were confined in the open air, in a back
close, in a wild and stormy night, and the said James Marshall was
thereafter put another time in prison, _in a most nasty pit far below
ground_, where he lay several days, and _a short time thereafter died_,
and upon his deathbed declared the imprisonment to be the reason of his
death, which happened about a fortnight thereafter: and James Marshall,
his son, was also imprisoned without any cause, and died also, some time
thereafter.”
Tradition affirms that these luckless fishers had neglected to secure
some of the laird’s boats which had got adrift from their moorings—hence
his wrath. But tyrannous oppression would appear to have reached its
widest possibilities when we learn that a poor old woman, Margaret
Collie, spouse to Alexander Grant in Muir of Drainie, was cast into Sir
Robert’s noxious dungeon solely for taking the head of a ling out of the
midden or dunghill, believing that it was “good for curing the gout.”
[Illustration:
_C. F. Gordon Cumming._
OLD DOVE-COT AT GORDONSTOUN.
]
This, by the way, is not our sole glimpse of the “folk-medicine” of this
period. Among the multitudinous “varieties” of old papers, we find a
prescription by the learned Dr. Clark of Edinburgh, for Sir Robert
Gordon’s son, who was suffering from an obstinate cough, suggestive of
the east winds of the fair city. May 20th 1739.—“Give him twice a day
the juice of twenty slettars, squeezed through a muslin rag, in whey: to
be continued while he has any remains of the cough.” The _sletters_
which were to work this cure are those little, grey, armour-plated
wood-lice which are found under old stones, and which, when alarmed,
roll themselves up into hard balls.
Speaking of odd superstitions, there is one which somehow connected
pigeons with death. It was said that a person lying on a bed of pigeon’s
feathers could not die, and it was customary to apply living pigeons to
the feet of a person _in extremis_. Thus Samuel Pepys speaks of a man
whose “breath rattled in his throat, and they did lay pigeons at his
feet, and all despair of him.” He also notes how the queen of Charles
II. was so ill as to have pigeons put to her feet, and extreme unction
administered. From this the birds would appear to have been applied as a
last resource to prevent (or was it to facilitate?) death.
On the other hand, it was supposed that if a man wished to get rid of
his wife he had only to build a pigeon-house. Sir Robert, who hated his
wife, seems to have tried this remedy, for he built no less than four
large dove-cots—circular towers of about thirty feet in height by
sixty-three in diameter at the base, the interior being curiously fitted
with hundreds of little compartments for nests. One of these still
stands close to the house, and another at a very short distance. One of
the four seems to have been built for the annoyance of his neighbours,
being on a moorland marsh far from his own cultivated lands, but close
to theirs, and especially to those of Brodie of Brodie, the Lord Lyon
King of Arms. Hence we find a lawyer’s letter of remonstrance, showing
that “Sir Robert’s doves in that dovecoat will be fedd by the Lyon’s
tennant’s corns, especially the pease of Kinnedar.... The building of
this fourth dovecoat is an iniquous burden levelled at the Lyon.”
How the aggrieved neighbours must have rejoiced when the Jacobite
soldiers found their way to Gordonstoun and made a raid on the
dove-cots! In the spring of 1746 Sir Robert writes: “The Rebells
destroyed my pigeons at Gordonstoun by shooting the doves; and in the
evening, when it was to be presumed the doves had entered the dovecott,
they first stoped the dovecott, that the pigeons could not get out, then
broke open the door, and entering, destroyed the doves within.... They
also destroyed my dovecott of Bellormy.”
Whatever hope Sir Robert may have entertained of expediting the death of
Dame Agnes, he failed signally, though he succeeded in making her life
so miserable that she left Gordonstoun and went with two of her sons to
live at Pitgaveny, beside the Loch of Spynie. Whereupon her loving
spouse devised a very remarkable means to avoid being compelled to make
her an allowance for aliment. _As he sat down to every meal he sent a
servant to Lady Gordon’s deserted apartments to summon her._ Thus was
Lady Gordon “called to her meals”!
When at length he was legally compelled to grant her maintenance, he
assigned to her use the produce of certain outlying fields, on the verge
of which (or, as the old record says, “on Lady Gordon’s extremities”) he
built one of his great dove-cots with intent that the hungry birds
should feed at her expense.
This much-aggrieved wife survived not only her loving spouse, but also
her four sons, and even Sir Alexander Penrose Cumming of Altyre, who
then succeeded to the estates, but died in 1806, SO THAT HER JOINTURE
WAS PAID FOR SOME YEARS BY MY FATHER—a circumstance which certainly
seems to bring us very near to all these strangely old-world doings.
In her later years she moved to a house at Lossiemouth, where she lived
well into the nineteenth century, and was long remembered by the
inhabitants as an energetic old lady with a gold-headed cane, living in
great alarm of an invasion by the French, against whose approach she
fortified herself by an expedient which was then deemed as ingenious as
it was novel, namely, to crest her high garden walls with broken glass
strongly embedded in lime.
Great was the rejoicing of rich and poor when in 1772 Sir Robert died,
having, as aforesaid, actually been in possession of the estate for
seventy-one years.
Gladly was the accession of his eldest son hailed, and great were the
hopes that he might long be spared to hold his lands in peace and
prosperity. For this young Sir Robert was an accomplished and kindly
man, who, having escaped from his gloomy home, had spent much of his
time in travel, and now gave promise of becoming a most useful county
gentleman. Several very interesting and beautifully written diaries
remain to prove his keen powers of observation at home and abroad.
But, alas! his career was hardly begun when, within three years, he
died, and was succeeded by his brother William, who proved well-nigh as
gloomy, retired, eccentric, and litigious as his father. Shutting up the
greater part of the house, he lived entirely in one wing, practising
strict economy. This measure was partly the result of the heavy tax on
windows, which, having been first imposed in 1695, was considerably
increased in 1784, in consequence of which many of the gentry resorted
to the dismal expedient of building up several of their windows, while
others gave up the use of half their houses, abandoning their empty
rooms to the bats and owls. Nevertheless the obnoxious tax was still
further increased in 1808, nor was it till 1823 that an alleviation was
procured, and the final repeal was enacted in 1851. How quickly we
forget pain when past! How few of the present generation remember the
struggles of the last to secure the free use of light and air!
Sir William lived till 1795, and on his deathbed, knowing that the title
must pass away to the family of Gordon of Letterfourie, and determined
that they should not possess the estates, he made a will, leaving all
his personal property and the valuable old library[26] to his natural
son, and all his lands to Sir Alexander Penrose Cumming of Altyre, as
the direct descendant of Lucy Gordon, the daughter of Sir Ludovick.
Knowing that such a will was liable to be disputed unless it could be
proven that the writer was not only of sound mind but had also been seen
“at kirk and mercat”[27] at a subsequent date to that of his signing the
document, Sir William actually left his sick-bed to show himself
publicly in the parish church, and on his return home wrote a letter to
the father of the minister to say how much he had been gratified by the
sermon preached that morning by his son. The cunning old gentleman was
well assured that his carefully dated letter would be preserved by the
proud father, and could be called for should any vexatious questions
arise.
So the broad lands passed into the hands of Sir Alexander Cumming, who
consequently assumed the name of Gordon. But he was by no means suffered
to possess the estates unchallenged, the Duchess of Portland laying
claim to them in right of her descent from another Lucy Gordon, of a
later generation, the daughter of Sir Robert the Wizard. This Lucy had
married David Scott of Scotstarvet, and some eminent lawyers maintained
that her right by inheritance was sufficiently strong to upset Sir
William’s will. So a tedious lawsuit commenced which wore on through
weary years at an enormous expense to all concerned. The chances of the
litigants appeared so well balanced that Sir Alexander, dreading the
overwhelming costs that would be entailed on him should he lose his
suit, strove to make some preparation for such a contingency by
wholesale cutting of the fine old timber around the house—ornamental
timber, which was so doubly valuable in this monotonously flat country.
[Illustration:
AN ATTIC WINDOW IN THE INNER COURT.
]
From that evil period, it is needless to say, the estate has never
recovered, so far as its appearance is concerned, though, happily,
enough of the ancestral trees remain to satisfy the rooks, those most
faithful adherents to old rook-traditions, whose cawing chorus and eerie
flight at sunrise and sunset awaken such multitudinous memories of the
past.
CHAPTER V
My Eldest Sister’s Marriage—Life at Cresswell—School-days in
London—First Sea Voyages—Roualeyn’s Return from South Africa.
My first recollection of country-house visiting was when I was six years
old, and my father and my sister Ida took me with them to stay at Gordon
Castle (the Duke of Richmond’s home near Fochabers). Curiously enough,
the stately duchess, _née_ Lady Caroline Paget, was sister-in-law to two
of my mother’s sisters, Aunt Eleanor having married her brother, Lord
Uxbridge, and Aunt Adelaide had married the duke’s brother, Lord Arthur
Lennox. I found a congenial playfellow in “Cuckoo” (Lady Cecilia Lennox,
now Lady Lucan), then a pretty child, a few months younger than myself.
That year also brought me my first experience of the honour of being a
bridesmaid. The bride was my eldest sister, Anne Seymour Conway, so
called after Mrs. Damur, the sculptress,[28] who was a cousin and
intimate friend of my grandmother.
Seymour was a very attractive girl—tall and graceful, with a profusion
of long, dark, glossy ringlets; she was a very sweet singer, and a good
artist in oils.
The bridegroom was Oswin Baker-Cresswell, eldest son of Addison
Baker-Cresswell of Cresswell Hall, in Northumberland—a huge pile of
solid stone, with tall Corinthian columns, about nine miles from
Morpeth, and one from the sea, close to which stands the old Tower of
Cresswell, which was old in the days of King John, and still bears
traces of the red-hot lead which the besieged poured on the heads of the
besiegers.
Close to it were the ruins of the old manor house, which was destroyed
when Mr. Cresswell resolved to erect his great modern mansion, the cost
of which proved to be so enormous that no one was ever allowed to
discover it.
The whole place, like the dear old squire himself, was solemn and
somewhat awe-inspiring, and the sweet little mother, who was the very
incarnation of gentle love, was so exceedingly delicate that at the time
of her eldest son’s marriage the family were living abroad, and it was
to this great empty house that the young bride was taken, from the
lovely home and the large happy family—
“Whose laughter made the thickets
And the arching alleys ring.”
In place of lovely woods carpeted with ferns and heather, there were
only very young plantations, with miles of beautifully kept and
frequently raked fine gravel paths; and even the sea-shore, to one
accustomed to the variety of form and wealth of colour of our beautiful
Covesea caves, was dreary and monotonous, added to which, the frequent
cold sea-mists, so very common on the Northumbrian coasts, all conspired
to weigh on the spirits of the young girl.
Ere long she entreated our father to let her have me, as a bit of young
life in the great house; and so it came to pass that Sir William,
accompanied by my second sister Ida, took me and my Swiss _bonne_
Chérie, posting all the way from Altyre to Cresswell.
Vividly do I remember our arrival, and all the solemn, kind old servants
indoors and out, who made a pet of the child who, with the adaptability
of early youth, soon learnt to love everything connected with the big
house, even the grim statuary. In our sitting-room at Altyre sculpture
was represented by a graceful Venus, beautiful heads of Bacchus and
Apollo, and family busts, and one—not beautiful, but unique—of Madame de
Staël, who was a special friend of my father, each delighting in the
ready wit of the other—“_Les beaux esprits se rencontrent_.”
At Cresswell the place of honour in the central hall was assigned to a
life-sized group of the agonised Laocoon in deadly conflict with the
entwining serpents, and all round the grand staircase were casts of the
grim, fractured Elgin marbles—a source of never-ending puzzlement to the
child.
Then there was the delight of the crowds of pheasants, which came
continually to feed out of boxes on the lawn, and of walks to the one
great boulder which we called the Lion’s Head, and of climbing into the
huge head-bones of the whale which had been cast up by the sea—a unique
occurrence, in memory of which Mr. Cresswell built a high stone
platform, on which the bones repose to the present day. Or there were
large pine cones from the flourishing young pinasters to be collected,
or a prowl round the headland where the great fossil tree
(Lepidodendron) was found. Or else a delightful ramble along the wide
yellow sands of Druridge Bay, where we picked up such a variety of
shells; and the kind fishers would reserve for me many a treasure drawn
up in their nets. Even the gravel walks supplied scraps of red cornelian
for the young collector.
And if the great walled gardens lacked the romantic beauty of those at
Altyre, they had endless delight for the child who was allowed a free
hand (and much help) in cultivating her own sheltered nook. There also
was a room entirely given up to canaries, which built their nests and
reared their young in full view of all comers.
When winter came, what excitement there was in decking the house with
holly, and helping the cook to bake “Yuledoughs,” which were wonderful
figures of men and women, decorated with currants, to appear on the
Christmas breakfast tables, a lass for each lad, and a lad for each
lassie. As to the Yule-logs, the marvel was whence in that treeless
region such great logs could have come.
But the chief wonder was the gigantic game-pie, containing a turkey, a
goose, a hare, and at least a couple (boned, of course) of every other
variety of fur and feather yielded by the poultry-yard, or supplied by
the sportsman. Its pie-crust cover, which was lifted off and on bodily,
was adorned with groups of game, which we deemed triumphs of artistic
genius, and the weight of the whole taxed the strength of the strongest
footman.
Then there were the carol-singers, and these were followed at the New
Year by mummers, the latter being men and lads from the collieries
fantastically dressed up. Sometimes the excitement was varied by deep
snow, which necessitated digging out a road all the way to Morpeth.
In due season came the joys of Easter—of gathering golden furze
blossoms, and of begging for bits of the maids’ last year’s print
dresses wherein to boil the gay Pasque eggs which rejoiced all the
village children, and which rolled so delightfully on the grassy slopes
along the sea-board.
And a little later, all the woods were carpeted with luxuriant
primroses, and oh, joy of joys! Chug-dean (the one little glen, through
which flows a sluggish stream whose steep banks are clothed with natural
wood) became all ablaze with colour—blue hyacinths, pink ragged-robin,
primroses, anemones, fox-gloves, and orchids, and here and there a
delightful nest with eggs or young birds.
Then, indeed, the child realised an earthly paradise, only occasionally
marred by old Chérie’s views of what was “_convenable_” for “_les
demoiselles bien élevées_,” and the despairing cry with which she was
wont to check any display of too exuberant spirits, “_Ah! vous êtes un
Tom, et puis un romping boy!_” She meant a tomboy and a romp, but she
was apt to get a little mixed!
Very pleasant also was the kindly welcome of all the cottagers and the
fisher-folk. The latter were never tired of telling of the courage of my
sister Ida and “the Captain” (Bill Cresswell, of the 11th Hussars), and
how they sailed to Coquet Island, Grace Darling’s home, and were caught
in a very alarming storm. (Eventually that young couple followed the
example of her elder sister and his elder brother, and started in double
harness.)
How I loved the smell of baking in all the cottage ovens, and the
peculiar intonation of the Northumbrian burr-r-r, with the elevation of
the voice at the end of every sentence, so unmistakable wherever heard.
After some years’ absence, how pleasant it was to return to be greeted
by the hearty Anglo-Saxon, “Eh! Miss Coomins, but ye are sair-r-r
waxen!” (_i.e._ sore waxed, very much grown—good Biblical English).
In due season there were great rejoicings because of the birth of an
heir, and Baby Oswin was the very ideal of a healthy baby, and the joy
of the family. It is many years since he passed away from earth, a
weary, suffering man, and his grandsons are now the rising generation.
To mark his advent, my sister invited all the county neighbours to a
ball, and prepared for them a wonderful surprise, in the shape of a very
large and exceedingly beautiful Christmas-tree—a thing which had been
heard of in German stories, but which no one had yet seen. Needless to
say that all the very ornamental bonbons from Fortnum and Mason were
appreciated to the full.
Up to this time Cresswell had been the only home, for it was generally
supposed that the squire and the dear fragile little mother were both so
old that it would be folly for the young couple to start a separate home
for themselves. Now, however, my sister urged that a house should be
built at Harehope, at the foot of a sunny hill, where the purple
moorland and juniper-jungle suddenly ends and the rich cultivated land
begins, stretching on the one side to Wooler and the Cheviot hills, and
on the other to the lower range of the Fawdon hills.
Through this fertile valley a sluggish stream meanders—not beautiful,
but yielding excellent trout. Dull as it is, it has a most unenviable
notoriety, on account of the many sad drowning accidents it has
occasioned. Some local lines compare its fatalities with those of the
swift-flowing Tweed:—
“Says Tweed to Till,
‘What gars ye rin sae still?’
Says Till to Tweed,
‘Though ye rin with speed,
And I rin slaw,
For ilka man ye droon
I droon twa.’”
The proposed site was happily situated in regard to neighbours, as on
one side it marches with Lord Tankerville’s beautiful estate of
Chillingham Castle, and the park where the celebrated wild white cattle
still retain their pure blood—the only herd which can now claim to do
so. In the opposite direction lies Alnwick Castle (the Duke of
Northumberland’s stately home), and up the valley lies Esslington, one
of Lord Ravensworth’s homes; and these families were all old friends.
After much consideration, it was decided to build a comfortable
Elizabethan house, at the foot of Harehope hill, and friends and
neighbours assembled to see Baby Oswin lay the foundation-stone of what
very soon became a pretty home. But ere the boy was ten years of age,
his father died of a rapid typhoid fever; his mother quickly followed,
and the five children returned to Cresswell to be brought up by the
grandparents, who lived till all save one were married or on the verge
of so being.
Soon after the laying of that foundation-stone, my father married again.
His bride was Jane Mackintosh of Geddes, an estate near Nairn. Her
sister Kate (who was a charming musician) married Dr. Norman Macleod of
the Barony Church in Glasgow. He was one of the Queen’s most trusted
friends—one of the largest-hearted and clearest-headed men who ever
influenced his fellows for good. He originated _Good Words_, the first
periodical which aimed at producing attractive literature with a
distinctly religious tone, and did more than any man of his generation
to teach and exemplify true Christian liberty. It is a fact that at that
time an elder of the Presbyterian Church would scarcely venture to take
a stroll on Sunday, unless he could slip out by a back-door.
Great was the wrath of all the family, when on her bridal visit to
Cresswell, my stepmother persuaded my father to take me back to Altyre,
as a preliminary to sending me to a first-rate school near London. This
was considered highly _infra dig._; but I now look back to it as a wise
act, very valuable to me.
So to Altyre I returned for some months of 1848, after which my brother
Henry took me by stage-coach “Defiance” as far as Aberdeen, where we
slept, proceeding next day by rail to London. There he drove me to
Hermitage Lodge near Fulham, and left me in the care of three very kind
sisters—Miss Ann, Miss Sophia, and Miss Isabella Stevens, with whom I
lived for the next five years, and kept up a firm friendship till one by
one they passed away from earth.
I was only about ten years old, and the fifteen other girls were all
from fifteen to seventeen, but we all got on together very well; and
though to the end I continued to be the youngest girl, I stayed long
enough to be the oldest, and quite an authority on “old days.” Many of
the girls were of good Scottish families, and some have continued my
friends till death. Comparatively few now survive, and they are
grandmothers! The Scottish connection was due to the fact that the
eldest sister had begun life as governess at Brahan Castle, in
Ross-shire, to Louisa Stewart Mackenzie, afterwards Lady Ashburton.
The fact of having always chattered French with my “bonne,” and having
been otherwise carefully taught by my sister—how she toiled over the
Church Catechism, Rollin’s _Ancient History_, Sir Walter Scott’s
fascinating _Tales of a Grandfather_, Audubon’s gorgeous tropical birds,
shell-lore; minuet and other steps in dancing, etc.—enabled me to take a
good place, notwithstanding the deficiency of years. But one altogether
new experience was being obliged on Sunday afternoon to write out all we
could remember of the morning sermon: most of the girls hated this, but
at that time I was happily endowed with an excellent memory, so that was
no great exertion.
We had seats at two churches, one at Walham Green, where Mr. Garratt
officiated; the other, Park Chapel, was a good deal further off, but Mr.
Cadman, who there ministered, had a wonderful power of securing the
attention and affection of his people, and to this day I can remember
much of his teaching.
The annual confirmations were held by the Bishop of London (Blomfield)
in the fine old Parish Church at Fulham, and were preceded by prolonged
and very careful confirmation classes. The age-limit prescribed that we
must be over sixteen, so my turn did not come till June 4, 1853, just
before I finally left school.
Once a month we had a solemn “party-night,” when we donned our best
muslin dresses and sat in the drawing-room to act audience to one
another’s music. There were generally a few relations present—fathers,
mothers, and sisters, but no young men. Mr. Garratt, however,
occasionally brought his son, an exceedingly well-behaved boy, who
consequently was admitted to our concert, and to share the supper we
thought so smart.
Thirty years later, on arriving in Japan, the chaplain of Yokohama was
invited to meet me, and was introduced as Mr. Garratt. A flash of memory
bridged the long years, and I straightway inquired “whether he had ever
heard of Walham Green?” A cordial affirmative made the next question
almost superfluous, “Did he remember Hermitage Lodge?” So there we met
again, and ere long, when Mrs. Foster and I set our hearts on climbing
to the summit of Fujiyama, “The Holy Mount,” he volunteered to be our
escort, and a more unselfish and helpful guardian no travellers could
desire.
As a remembrance of that expedition he presented me with a beautifully
modelled bronze wild-duck flying—an incense burner—which now hangs above
my window, as though flying in from the river.
We were a very happy set of girls, and for the most part very diligent
students, so any small act of rebellion produced quite a flutter. Such
an occasion was that when an uncongenial girl had been told to stay in
her room with nothing to do till she apologised for disrespect to one of
the sisters. About the third day she came forth, and sought the awful
interview, when she thus expressed her sentiments: “I have been told I
must apologise to you, so I have come to do so. Of course I can’t make
myself feel sorry, and I am not at all sorry, but all the same, I
apologise.” Needless to say, this black sheep was shortly returned to
the care of her relations.
This little detail was recalled to my memory by a much more recent case
of insubordination, when a small boy had been punished for some offence,
and a kind aunt endeavoured to improve the occasion. “Now, dear Tommy, I
am sure you are sorry that you were so naughty—you are sorry, dear, are
you not?” “No,” replied the impenitent youth, “I am not at all sorry. I
am very glad. And if I was a little dog, and I had a little tail, I
would wag it!”
I am thankful to say that I have all my life been endowed with a happy
talent of adaptation to my surroundings, and so our humdrum
school-garden yielded me never-failing interest. The really fine old
willow-trees had been grown from cuttings from the very tree which
overshadows Napoleon’s grave at St. Helena, and the pond afforded me
quite as much pleasure as it did to the fat white ducks who luxuriated
in frogs’ spawn. What delight it was to keep tadpoles in a bowl and
watch them develop into frogs! There were newts innumerable, and
water-mussels, and several varieties of snails in shells, and other
creatures. Above all, there were lovely blue dragon-flies, and sometimes
a scarlet one. Moreover, we had “Cora,” a nice young black retriever,
and a cat.
A little ingenuity contrived shady nooks where we could read in peace,
and the open lawn was the scene of many a joyous romp. Of course the
daily formal walk, two and two, was somewhat trying, but it soon became
a matter of course, and the dulness was somewhat mitigated by our being
allowed to select and vary our companion.
The girls quickly discovered my habit of early rising, and that I could
be relied on to waken them at any hour they wished, according to what
subject they were coaching, so at night they used to hand me a paper
from each room, stating at what hour each wished to be called, from 4
A.M. onwards. As we were all obliged to be in bed by ten, this was an
easy matter, and I think it led some of us to a literal and very helpful
interpretation of the promise, “They that seek ME early, shall find ME.”
In consequence of the distance from home, it was ordained that I was
always to spend the Easter and Christmas holidays with friends or
relations in the south, and only in summer was there the grand joy of a
real homegoing, which had all the interest of real travel by steamer.
First, there was the drive through the city to Wapping Old Stairs, and
as the vessel was generally lying in midstream, we had to charter a
small boat to take me and my baggage on board, and of course there were
always rough men about, trying to secure custom. Once on board, I was in
the centre of friends: captain and crew, stewards and stewardess,
welcomed me back year after year, so that I was thoroughly at home.
At that time the old _North Star_ was running direct from London to
Inverness, calling at various points along the coast, including
Burghead, which is our own seaport, near Gordonstoun. Thence fishers’
boats came out to fetch the cargo and passengers, and many a rough, wet
tossing we had ere reaching our desired haven. Personally, I was a good
sailor, and so wind and waves troubled me little, especially with the
delightful prospect of two months of absolute happiness, with so many
brothers, sisters, cousins, and friends, rich and poor.
If the family was at Gordonstoun, there was the daily delight of bathing
in our favourite sandy bay—the very thought of it brings back the
invigorating, brine-laden breeze, and the hum of the bees gathering
their store of heather-honey, and then the scramble over slippery rocks
in search of the black periwinkles, for which, as for every species of
fish with or without shells, my father had a special weakness.
If we were at Altyre, the bathing in the clear, brown fresh-water stream
was almost as fascinating, and there was the never-failing delight of
wandering along the banks of the Findhorn—to say nothing of returning
thence to the inexhaustible fruit-gardens; nowhere else have I ever seen
such large black Prussian and white-heart cherry-trees, into whose
branches we climbed, to feed with the least possible exertion,
descending with purple lips and hands. But there were always abundant
gooseberries at hand, and crushed “berries” remove all such stains.
(The word “berries” in this sense recalls the comment of one of the
fisher-folk at Cresswell, whose experience of apples had been most
uninviting, whereas the excellence of sweet gooseberries was undeniable.
“I cannot think how Eve could have been tempted by a sour-r-r apple! If
it had been berries I could ha’ understood it.” But you must supply the
burr and the accent for yourself.)
From the gardens, of course, we returned with armsful of fragrant
blossoms to renew some of the many vases. I believe my mother was the
first to devise tall vases and great spray nosegays, and all her
children shared her love for gathering and arranging flowers. No
compliment ever gave me such pleasure as the comment of a young farmer
to the effect that “Miss Eka would go to the fields and bring in a
kirn[29] of weeds, and make the most beautiful nosegays.”
It is strange that comparatively few people seem to realise how much the
beauty of flowers depends on the lovely wealth of green in which the
gem-like blossoms are set. The writer of the _Benedicite_ appreciated it
when he sang, “Oh ye green things of the earth, bless ye the Lord!”
Exquisite green meadows, or beech and larch-woods in the first flush of
their spring foliage, and the larches gemmed with rosy tassels. As
regards household decoration, I love to bring in graceful sprays of all
manner of green things—you never realise till you do this what a variety
of form and tint you thus obtain.[30] You soon learn from experience
which will live and which will wither too quickly, and mercy to your
housemaid will lead you to select ferns and grasses without seed—those
tall graceful grasses which delight in shady woods; very few of the
pretty field-grasses are satisfactory inmates. Such nosegays are in
themselves things of beauty, but if you have a few flowers to add, each
gains full value from such a setting, and a pinch of salt in each glass
will help to keep them alive, not forgetting to fill up your glasses
every morning, for these dear things need their breakfast quite as much
as you do yourself.
Delightful as were the woods and the moors and the river banks, we did
not need to go far in search of enjoyment, for on the balmy summer days
what more fragrant resting-place could be desired than the pleasant
lawn, beneath the cool shade of blossoming lime-trees, where busy, busy
bees murmured their happiness. Sometimes we there feasted on the fruit
of their toil, and surely nowhere else could bread and butter, milk and
honey, have tasted so delicious.
In those days the five o’clock tea, which every one now looks upon as a
necessity of life (and too often magnify into a serious extra meal,
greatly to the grief of the overworked internal mill), was only
stealthily creeping in as an unrecognised luxury. If there was a
schoolroom in the house, favoured guests were invited there—otherwise
ladies’-maids and valets carried a tepid cup ready made from the
housekeeper’s room to their master or mistress. The first step towards
toleration was bringing in a tray of large cups all full, and all
sugared and creamed alike, no fads being recognised. This arrived at
five, and gradually cooled till one by one came in from their walk.
When this innovation had gone on a little while, my father decided that
it was a bad habit, and forbade the untempting tray. But after a brief
interval it was found that he himself, as well as his family and guests,
had tea taken to their own rooms, so the farce of prohibition was
stopped, and little by little a simple and pleasanter tea-table was
inaugurated.
My memories seem to run largely towards feeding! I must recall one more,
which was the noble box of cakes and jam which a loving cook delighted
in preparing to solace my return to school. Though we all shared alike
in such dainties, of course the girl who brought most was deemed a
general benefactress, so the kind cook invariably provided an array of
the very largest “pigs” (_i.e._ stone-jars), which she filled with every
sort of jam and jelly, and the old carpenter made an extra strong box
for Miss Eka’s school stores, and indeed the pride of owning that case
was a very real joy.
In 1851 there was no journey to Scotland, for the year’s attractions
centred in London, and all the family spent the summer there. It was the
year of the Great Crystal Palace in Hyde Park—that fairy-like dream of
Prince Albert which, quite as if by magic, had been realised by Paxton
and a host of assistants.
To the present generation the great Crystal Palace at Sydenham (which
externally is more beautiful than the original Palace) seems quite a
matter of course; but it was very different to those who, more than
fifty years ago, suddenly turned aside from the accustomed dusty street
to find themselves in presence of this dazzling fairy palace, within
which, for the first time under one roof, were exhibited priceless
treasures from every corner of the known world. And not products only,
but representatives of every known land—every shade of colour and
variety of dress, while the ear was bewildered by a general blending of
all the principal tongues of Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. We are
accustomed to such world-gatherings now, but in 1851 they were seen for
the first time.
Of course that marvellous palace was the lode-star which attracted every
one again and again, but for us there was another exhibition of
exceeding interest, namely, that of the amazing collection of
hunting-trophies brought from South Africa by my brother Roualeyn,
generally known as, _par excellence_, “The Lion Hunter.”
During his prolonged absence in the interior, letters had become scarcer
and more scarce, and only some occasional quotation from a Cape Town
paper, with rumours of his prodigious “bags,” kept up the hope that he
still lived. Suddenly one day the glass door of my sisters’ pleasant
sitting-room at Altyre opened, and in walked a magnificent and
magnificently-bearded wild man of the woods—a very gentle
savage—followed by a most hideous, elf-like little bushman called
Ruyter, on account of his good horsemanship.
This little man had been the most faithful of all Roualeyn’s
followers—indeed, when he lay on the Great Desert helpless, by reason of
rheumatic fever, and exposed to the full violence of the tropical sun
(which naturally resulted in sun-stroke), Ruyter alone remained with
him, guarding and tending him to the very best of his ability. So, when
Roualeyn concluded that it was time to return to the home-land, he very
naturally invited the little man to accompany him, and the faithful
creature clave to him. Alas! his master neglected the doctor’s wise
counsel to have him vaccinated, and about ten years later, when smallpox
was raging in Inverness, poor Ruyter caught it and died.
For about a year after their dramatic arrival, this strangely assorted
couple remained at Altyre, during which time my sisters vainly
endeavoured to instil into the bushman’s mind any conception of sacred
things or of a spiritual life. He spoke with affection of his dead
mother, but to any suggestion that she still lived, and that he also
would still live when this poor soul-case ceased to breathe, he had but
one answer, “Massa’s sister, my mother is rotten, and I shall be
rotten.” So they had to drop the subject and leave him to find out the
truth in due season, as between “inherent” or “conditional”
Immortality.[31]
During those quiet months my sisters wrote out, from Roualeyn’s
dictation, those extracts from his voluminous diaries which were
published by Murray of Albemarle Street under the title, _Five Years of
a Hunter’s Life in the Far Interior of South Africa_—a book which took
the country by storm, and captivated every boy and lad who could get a
chance of reading it.
Of course armchair reviewers treated it as a delightful and beautifully
written work of fiction, but one which no person of ordinary
intelligence could possibly be expected to believe; and even when the
stupendous collection of his trophies was exhibited, they smiled at the
audacity of any man who could pretend that all had fallen to his own
rifle. (And there was abundant excuse for their incredulity, when you
remember that in those days there were no breech-loaders—only the slow
old muzzle-loaders, with all their cumbersome processes.) The sportsman
had to carry a bag of pasteboard wads, a powder-flask, shot-belt,
ramrod, percussion caps, etc. etc., and use each before he could
fire—all now replaced by one neat cartridge. But such sport-made-easy
was then undreamt of. It was not till 1866 (the year in which Roualeyn
died) that breech-loaders were first used by the Prussians in the
Franco-Prussian War, and after that British muzzle-loaders were
transformed. So none of my elder brothers ever dreamt of such easy
methods.
Doubtless Roualeyn would have been set down as another Baron Munchausen
had not his friend, the great and good Dr. Livingstone, happily
confirmed every word he had written, and expressed his conviction (as
did also several African chiefs) that Roualeyn had suppressed some of
his most startling adventures, simply from a fear that they would not be
believed.[32]
Strange to say, after coming unscathed through such appalling dangers,
he about twelve years after this time very narrowly escaped being killed
by a fierce Highland bull, which caught him unawares and tossed him
about ten feet into the air. Mercifully he fell on his back into a
shallow ditch, and had the presence of mind to draw up his knees against
his chest and to hit the bull’s head with the thick soles of his
Highland brogues[33] every time it approached him, thereby parrying its
thrusts.
The ground on either side was ploughed up by the creature’s horns, and
Roualeyn’s kilt was torn into ribbons: the silver head of his sporran
was all dunted in, and his body seriously cut and bruised. However, a
boy who was with him at length succeeded in driving off the infuriated
brute, and so Roualeyn was saved.
Among those who were most vividly impressed with his wonderful
descriptions of scenery, and of the vast herds of wild creatures of
every variety, was Harrison Weir, the great animal painter. He and
several other artists of mark painted a series of twenty-seven great
pictures for a diorama, giving life-like illustrations of the long train
of waggons, each drawn by a dozen oxen, sometimes toiling by the
roughest cart-road along the face of a precipice, sometimes proceeding
up the bed of a river knee-deep in water.
Some of these pictures gave a vivid idea of the countless herds of
beautiful animals, of all of which many specimens were there for
inspection, as was also the very waggon which had so long been the
hunter’s only home. In 1855 this diorama was added to the attractions of
the exhibition, the hunter himself describing the scenes twice daily.
His old hunting-saddle, resting on the skull of a huge bull elephant,
formed his “pulpit,” where he stood beneath a triumphal arch of the
largest known elephant tusks.
But in 1851 the exhibition of hunting-trophies and a general talk proved
sufficiently attractive to draw crowds, while Ruyter, concealed in the
waggon, occasionally rushed out with a terrific yell, greatly to the
alarm of nervous visitors. I cannot say that this exhibition was
altogether appreciated by the family, for in those days we had very
rigid ideas as to what might or might not be done by people of social
standing, and the limitations were often exceedingly inconvenient.
For instance, for ladies to walk without a gentleman or a footman
anywhere except within Belgravia was deemed quite incorrect. Still worse
would it have been to go in a hansom, and as to setting foot even inside
a ’bus, I am sure my father would have had a fit had any one of us dared
to do such a thing! “_Nous avons changé tout cela!_”
Of course, being only a schoolgirl, I could not share all the gaieties
of the London season, which my elder sisters found so delightful; but
there were pleasures enough notwithstanding—long days on the river with
Roualeyn (ZOE we always called him), and one fascinating day when he
took me to Windsor Castle and to Eton and introduced me to the scenes of
his many delinquencies and their just retribution!
Then there were gorgeous flower-shows at Chiswick, and
picture-galleries, and visits to friendly artists in their studios—to
Frank Grant, Watts, Philips, and Sir William Ross. The two last were
painting portraits of two of my sisters.
And there were blissful evenings at the opera, when the stars were Grisi
and Mario, Gardoni, Bosio, Sophie Cruvelli, Sontag, Castellani,
Lablache, and others. I remember one night in particular, when Grisi was
acting Norma, and her impassioned rendering of the scene with her
children thrilled the whole audience. Afterwards we learned that that
night her favourite child had died, and she had vainly implored the
manager to grant her leave of absence. He deemed it impossible, and so
the agony which we applauded as such perfect acting was in truth the
very outpouring of an aching heart.
Mario’s exquisitely pathetic singing is to this day a haunting memory,
and though less effective on the stage, Gardoni’s melodious voice in a
concert-room was almost as fascinating. I don’t think that any one who
heard him sing “_Le Chemin du Paradis_” could ever have forgotten it. I
never heard any other singer whose “lilt” was so exactly described by
the French phrase “_Les larmes dans la voix_.”
Among the musical stars whose personal acquaintance I had the pleasure
of making was Salaman, whose “I arise from dreams of thee” was a
delight.
And Ristori also, who was then in her prime, was one of the sensations
of the year. Twenty years later I had the privilege of again hearing
that queenly, fascinating woman, and of meeting her socially in the
Antipodes at Sydney, when she and the Marquis del Grillo and their
handsome son and daughter, George and Bianca, were doing a tour of the
world.
How difficult it is sometimes to judge of the effect which what we deem
a great pleasure, may have on other minds. I remember one evening we
thought that, as a rare treat, we would send some of our Scotch servants
to the opera, and next day asked one of the ladies’-maids whether she
had enjoyed it. “No,” was the decided reply, “we did not like it at all.
You don’t see real leddies and gentlemen flinging themselves about and
skirling yon gate!”[34]
Two more years at Hermitage Lodge brought school-life to a close, and
1853 was the year of emancipation and full enjoyment of home, unclouded
by any thought of gathering clouds. Yet these were all too near. For a
little while, however, all was bright, and we revelled in the loveliness
of our homes. I recall one little detail of daily life, which seems odd
now, namely, that every afternoon, quite as a matter of course, we each
brought in flowers or coloured leaves or wild berries, and made our
wreath to wear at dinner—a full circular wreath. And we always wore full
evening dress, with low bodies and short sleeves, even if by any chance
we were quite alone. The comfort of _demi-toilette_ had not then
received social sanction.
CHAPTER VI
My First London Season—My Father’s Accident—Beginning of the Crimean
War—Death of Captain Cresswell—Death of my Father—We leave Altyre.
Eighteen hundred and fifty-four was destined to bring us face to face
with some of life’s sternest realities. Little did we foresee these, as
the opening months of the year sped on all brightly. I have found an old
journal kept day by day—the record of my first London season and first
“Northern Meeting.”
Each day I noted the companions of all those cheerful doings; and of
that whole extensive list not a dozen are now on earth, and that dozen
includes children such as my youngest half-sister, then a little
curly-head, now a grandmother.
Now that all travel is made so very easy, I may as well describe how we
all moved from Altyre to London for the season. On April 18th, on a
lovely Spring morning, we breakfasted at six, and then my father and
stepmother, with lady’s-maid and footman, started in a carriage called
“the chariot” to post as far as Aberdeen; thence they proceeded to
London by rail.
Two days later my sister Nelly and I, with our lady’s-maid, the nursery
party of three children and two nurses, the cook, the butler, and other
members of the household, making up a dozen in all, drove in the early
morning to Burghead, where, after considerable delay, we got on board
the _Queen_, an exceedingly dirty vessel, and a very slow sailer. Her
cargo consisted of six hundred sheep, fifty head of cattle, and numerous
pigs, so closely packed that two wretched sheep died in the scrimmage.
The pigs, as is their wont, poor beasts, proved most unfragrant
companions, especially when the wind set in from their quarter.
The vessel was crowded with passengers, apparently bound for “the gold
diggings.” Our party had to pack into two filthy little state-cabins,
where we could only get a breath of air by leaving open a door leading
to the saloon, where the men were drinking and “havering.”
Thanks to overloading and stoppages, instead of reaching Edinburgh the
following morning, we did not do so till night, just in time to see the
_Leith_, by which we were to have proceeded to London, steam away.
Happily, however, the _Royal Victoria_, a rival steamer, had been
detained by the tide, so we at once went on board, and finding her very
nice and clean, secured the whole ladies’ cabin, which was large and
airy. So we started comfortably, but just as we were passing the Bass
Rock it was found that we had burst a pipe, which necessitated our
immediate return to Edinburgh, where we lay at anchor till the following
morning.
One little joke was afforded us by an English passenger, who, after
gazing at the grand old Bass Rock, with its clouds of white-winged
sea-birds, exclaimed: “I have been vainly looking for any building, and
I cannot make out where the great brewery can be!” You see his ideas ran
largely on Bass’s Pale Ale!
The two following days were so very stormy that none of us could venture
on deck, and the water poured into our cabin. However, on the fifth day
we reached London, and forgot all troubles in the warmth of our welcome
at 23 Chesham Street.
Next day, April 26th, had been appointed as a National Fast Day, on
account of the Crimean War, which, nevertheless, was very lightly
thought of either by those who were being ordered to sail or by the
friends and relations, who expected so soon to see them all return. We
had all enjoyed the blessings of peace for so long, that we could not at
all realise the horrors of the near future.
So all the gaieties of the London season went on unchecked. For some
reason, neither my sister Nelly nor my stepmother had previously been
presented, so they (presented by the queenly Duchess of Sutherland)
monopolised all the court festivities, my turn being deferred till the
next opportunity. However, nothing could have been pleasanter than my
first ball, given by Sir Adam Hay of King’s Meadows, who, with his four
handsome daughters, surrounded by flowers and light, remain as a vivid
memory-picture of that happy evening: a group worthy of the proverbially
“Handsome Hays.”
All went cheerily till May 11th. Well do I remember our afternoon with
my beautiful aunt Emma Russell, whom we found literally covered with
young birds: her husband having found a whole family of long-tailed
titmice offered for sale, had bought them and brought them to her to
feed and try to rear—a trial of patience indeed, the hungry creatures
beginning to chirp for breakfast by about 4 A.M.
We had scarcely left the door when the carriage stopped, and the footman
told us that Sir William had just been driven past in a cab, and had
called to us to follow him. There had been an accident. We arrived just
in time to see him supported into the house by two men, and covered with
blood, accompanied by a kind doctor who told us that he had seen Sir
William knocked down and run over by a hansom cab, which had come
suddenly round a corner.
My father always carried in his waistcoat pocket the address of his old
friend Dr. Allan, for whom a messenger had been at once despatched, but
in case he might be out, my sister drove to St. George’s Hospital, and
thence brought back Dr. Prescott Hewitt. The two doctors arrived
simultaneously, and found the chief injury to be a simple dislocation,
which they were able at once to set right. The other injuries were cuts
and severe bruises on the face and down one side—very painful, but not
dangerous. Strangely enough, the damage had been done by the fall, the
side down which the wheel had passed having sustained very little harm.
So for the next three weeks my father was confined to the house, but
neither he nor any one else, except Dr. Allan, at all realised how
serious a shock he had really received. My three married sisters came to
town to see him and cheer his captivity, for he longed to be out in the
midst of his many friends.
One of the three sisters was Ida, Mrs. William Baker-Cresswell, whose
husband’s regiment, the 11th Hussars, then stationed at Dublin, was
under orders to sail at once for the Crimea, and she had resolved to
accompany him, and make herself useful should need arise—not that danger
was really expected! Still she was always ready for everything, and
there have been few women so brave and so capable.
Our cousin, George Grant of Grant (Lord Seafield’s youngest son), who
was engaged to my sister Nelly, was also much with us. His regiment, the
42nd Highlanders, was also under orders, but all treated the prospect as
if they were going to a picnic.
On May 20th, George sailed with his regiment on board the _Hydaspes_,
and Ida and Bill Cresswell with the 11th on board the _Panola_. From a
Dublin paper I quote the following extract: “The perfect regularity with
which the embarkation of both men and horses was conducted were
unexceptional. But enthusiasm was more than usually excited by the
gallant Captain being accompanied by Mrs. Cresswell, who, although the
only lady, with the spirit of her race accompanies the regiment to the
East. Long and loud were the cheers of her gallant ‘comrades’ re-echoed
from the shore, which greeted her on reaching the vessel—a fine ship of
nine hundred and sixty-five tons.”
Notwithstanding this praise, the vessel proved a wretched old tub, and
her passengers had to watch one ship after another, which had sailed
long after them, sail past them; food and accommodation were alike
filthy, as were also the habits of some of the crew, especially the
mate, who by common consent was named Spitz-Bergen! But my sister’s
brave, bright spirit never failed her, and she made the very best of
everything, whether at sea or on land, during the prolonged detention in
camp at Varna.
My father insisted that we should all go about as if nothing was amiss
with him, and come to amuse him by accounts of what we had seen, so on
May 13th our cousin, Ian Campbell of Islay, drove Nelly and me to
Woolwich to see the launch of the _Royal Albert_. It was a grand sight.
There were twelve thousand ticket-holders round the huge ship, and a
vast number of others. As far as we could see, the roofs of the houses
were swarming, every boat, every steamer, crowded—in every direction a
dense, dark mass of human beings. We were fortunate in having seats very
near the Queen and Prince Consort, and watched her christening the
vessel by breaking a bottle of wine against her side, which, however,
she failed to do until the third attempt, after which, amid deafening
cheers from the multitudes, she went on board her own yacht, whence she
could better see the launch. The great ship glided away most
majestically, and, plunging into the river, commenced her career;
whereupon we proceeded to Greenwich Hospital to lunch with the governor.
Another interest out of the run of the regular “society” treadmill, with
two or three events for every evening, was the arrival in London for the
first time of the Cologne Singers, who came to raise funds for something
connected with the cathedral. They numbered eighty, all Germans. Some
sang solos, others joined in chorus, but instead of any instrumental
accompaniment, some were set apart to hum the accompaniment, producing a
singularly beautiful effect, like the murmur of the sea, swelling and
then dying away.
Another musical interest was the appearance at private concerts of
little “Arthur Napoleon,” a child eight years old, who played some of
Thalberg’s most difficult pieces by heart quite beautifully, with
wonderful execution and perfect feeling. It seemed scarcely possible
that his thin, tiny hands could really produce those crashing chords.
By the 10th June my father had made such good progress that the doctors
consented to his accompanying us to Sydenham to see the Queen open the
grand Crystal Palace in its enhanced beauty, and on its permanent site.
It was a very fatiguing day for him, as we had to start at eleven, and
even then found ourselves in a string of carriages two miles long, and
when we did reach the Palace, we had literally to force our way through
the dense crowds ere we could reach our seats, which were already full.
However, Lord Ranelagh got seats on the Peers’ gallery for Lady Cumming
and my sister, and Sir William and I secured good standing room in the
Commons’ gallery, whence we had an excellent view of the whole building,
which was most beautiful.
Every available corner being crammed with spectators, flowers had to
find place in baskets suspended between the pillars, which were all
wreathed with fragrant roses and lilies. In the centre, on a raised
dais, stood Her Majesty’s chair of state, beneath a canopy of crimson
velvet. There in due course of time she and Prince Albert and the royal
family took their places, accompanied by the King of Portugal, the Duke
of Oporto, and many other grandees.
Behind the dais rose the orchestra, consisting of four hundred
instrumental, and twelve hundred vocal performers. As soon as the Queen
entered, Clara Novello rose and sang the National Anthem, her single
clear, rich voice filling the whole gigantic building, to the amazement
of all who heard her, and then the sixteen hundred sang it in chorus,
which was beautiful but overwhelming.
After the Queen had made her opening speech, all the principal officials
were presented to her, and of course ought to have backed from the royal
presence, but, being embarrassed by the steps of the dais, each turned
round and walked down in calm oblivion of court manners, whereat the
two-guinea mob laughed so rudely that the Queen looked unmistakably
angry at their lack of courtesy.
Her Majesty and all the royal party then walked round the palace in a
grand procession, and on their return the hundredth psalm was sung, the
Archbishop of Canterbury offered prayer, and the Hallelujah Chorus was
sung magnificently. The palace was then declared open, and the Queen
departed, while Clara Novello again sang the National Anthem, and the
choir repeated it in full chorus.
After considerable delay we succeeded in finding our carriage, and
rejoiced when we reached London in safety, and found that my father was
none the worse for an exertion which had afforded him so much interest.
Thenceforward he refused to be considered an invalid, and took his full
share in all social amusements, one of the first being a large party to
meet many Indian princes: Tippoo Sahib’s grandson, the Prince of Surat,
the Rajah of Koorg and suite. The Rajah was arrayed in cloth of gold,
and blazed with precious stones, but some of his suite were very simply
attired, one old nobleman being rolled up in a little shawl, pinned
across his shoulders, just like an old nurse! The Rajah’s interpreter
told us that when he first came to England and saw the mixed parties of
ladies and gentleman, he was so shocked and ashamed that he did not know
which way to look, and longed to hide himself.
Orientals were rarer in London in those days than they are now. We had
previously met them at several balls, including the Caledonian, which,
of course, was attended by all good Scots. On that occasion my sister
and I were in Lady Kinnoull’s Spanish Quadrille, eight of the ladies
being in black Spanish lace over yellow silk, the other eight over
rose-colour, and all wearing high combs and Spanish mantillas over our
heads. Our cavaliers were all officers of the Life and Foot Guards in
full uniform. Of course most of the men present were in Highland dress.
On 5th July we all left town, my father and Lady Gordon-Cumming
returning north, while Nelly and I went to visit our beautiful sister
Alice Jenkinson—the only one of our mother’s daughters who had inherited
something of her great gift of beauty. She and her husband were renting
a pleasant cottage at Lyndhurst, in the New Forest, then a delightful
rural village, very different to the present town. (I am reminded of the
lapse of years by the thought of her jovial baby, little Francis, who
called himself Mig, and is still so called by all his intimates, though
he has long since developed into the learned University Librarian at
Cambridge.)
What dreams of delight were our daily expeditions through that noble
forest—its endless green glades lighted by gleams of vivid sunlight, and
the whole air fragrant with honeysuckle growing in rank profusion. Our
favourite expedition was to the Mark Ash wood, where magnificent old
trees formed a great square, their boughs meeting overhead, like the
green arches of a natural cathedral. We measured the circumference of
four grand beech and oak-trees, and found each to be about twenty-three
feet. One day while we were there at luncheon a troop of forest-ponies
came up and grazed all around, adding much to the picturesque scene.
Another day the hounds and hunt passed by, followed by the wretched tame
stag, which, having been chased for three hours, had dropped from sheer
exhaustion and been captured, to be carried home in a cart. And that was
sport!
A week later found us once again tossing on the sea on our return voyage
to lovely Altyre, where the roses were in full glory, and everything
seemed extra luxuriant.
We spent the whole month of August at our beloved Gordonstoun, many
friends coming and going to picnic in the caves and otherwise amuse
themselves. My father, though still troubled by his bruised cheek, and
not up to his usual mark, was greatly invigorated by the sea breezes,
and thoroughly enjoyed the walks he so much loved along the beautiful
cliffs and on the shore, and Dr. Allan’s strong counsel that he should
go to a warmer climate was deemed quite foolish.
On the 1st of September we returned to Altyre, where, as usual, almost
every day brought large impromptu parties from neighbouring houses,
arriving just in time for luncheon, and then expecting to be escorted
through the gardens and to some of the loveliest points of the river. In
these more conventional days, when no one dreams of dropping in to meals
uninvited, I sometimes wonder how our cooks contrived to be always ready
for such sudden invasions, and to provide a sumptuous luncheon for
perhaps a dozen unexpected guests from two or three different houses;
however, they were never known to fail.
Amongst the guests whose visits gave us special pleasure were the dear
old Duchess of Gordon (who, being godmother to George Grant, was
particularly interested in my sister Nelly), and also Lord and Lady
March (the late Duke of Richmond and Gordon). Little did any one then
foresee that after the lapse of many years their son, Lord Walter Gordon
Lennox, would woo and win Alice Grant, my sister Nelly’s eldest
daughter.
This autumn, to our great delight, Relugas (at the junction of the
Findhorn and the Devie) was rented by our special friends the George
Forbes’s of Medwyn. The elder brother had married my father’s sister,
and handsome George had married Sir Adam Hay’s sister, and although we
were not really cousins, we always considered ourselves to be so.
On 19th September Mary Forbes married Canon Harford Battersby, Vicar of
Keswick, whose name is now so widely known and revered as the founder of
“the Keswick Convention,” that wonderful annual gathering of Christian
folk, who, to the number of over six thousand, assemble from all corners
of the world for a week in July in that little village in the wilds of
Cumberland, previously known only for its beauty and its manufacture of
cedar-wood pencils.
The wedding was in the episcopal church at Forres, and the wedding
breakfast in my father’s house close to the church (Forres House). He
proposed the health of the young couple, but his speech lacked its
wonted zest. Little did we dream that it would prove his last appearance
at any such festivity, and that we should only once again meet the bride
and bridegroom. Many years afterwards I visited their grave in the
beautiful “God’s-acre” at Keswick, and, within the church, saw the white
marble bas-relief of the Canon’s strikingly handsome profile.
Still less did any one dream that the war with Russia had become a
matter of deadly earnest, and that on that very day our troops had
landed in the Crimea, and on the morrow would charge the heights of
Alma, and that two thousand of our gallant men would be left dead or
sorely wounded on that fatal plain.
Looking back, it does seem passing strange that no thought of any real
danger should have come home to any of us, but in those days there were
no swift telegraphs to flash their daily and hourly reports, and news
only reached us by letters at very uncertain intervals.
So our social life went on uninterrupted, and, as a matter of course,
the great Highland gathering was held as usual at Inverness; and our
cousins, the Mackintoshes of Raigmore, assembled (as was their wont) as
many friends and kinsfolk as could be crammed into that elastic house.
My sister and I were of course of the number, so the day after the
wedding we drove to Raigmore, and that night had a merry household
dance, as preliminary to the first-rate balls on the two following
nights, with pipe music, dancing, and games all the day. In those years
no Highland family who could possibly be present, failed to be at
Inverness at that time, and comparatively few strangers came—a very
different gathering to the present huge assemblage from innumerable
shooting-lodges.
We returned to Altyre on the 23rd September, and found Sir William
apparently very well, and always much taken up with his three youngest
children.
It was not till 4th October that news reached us of the battle of Alma,
and not till the 10th was the awful official list of killed and wounded
published, including many of our personal friends and connections.
On the following day came a letter from George Grant telling us of the
death from cholera, after five hours’ illness, of our dear
brother-in-law, Bill Cresswell, 11th Hussars, and how he had been buried
on the plain below the heights of Alma on the very morning of the
battle, the first victim of the war. While we were at the Highland
games, George and his Highlanders had been burying the slain on that
awful field.
Of our sister he could give no tidings. He only knew that on arriving
from Varna the troops had been landed without tents, and had to sleep on
the damp ground. In the night Bill, always very delicate, was attacked
by cholera. An alarm was raised that the Cossacks were upon them, and
they were to advance at once. A covered native cart was procured, and in
it Captain Cresswell was placed, alone in his terrible agony. When they
reached their halting-ground in the dark early morning of the 20th, he
was dead, and his men, who adored him, wrapped him in his blanket, and
buried him.
A few days later we received a letter from my sister herself, dated
Varna Bay, September 22, totally unconscious of her awful loss. It seems
that while they were in camp at Varna, she had nursed some of the sick
men, till she herself was stricken with fever, and for three weeks lay
very ill. She also suffered torture from a boil on the knee and a
whitlow on the finger, consequent on being thoroughly rundown by reason
of execrable feeding on the voyage from England. So, although she
accompanied her husband on board the _War Cloud_ to the Crimea, she was
unable to leave the vessel. The captain (Captain Fox) treated her with
the most courteous kindness, procured a female attendant for her, and
gave her a large, airy saloon. But the vessel had to return at once to
Varna to fetch more troops.
This letter was followed by another, dated 3rd October, still from
Varna. On arriving there the _War Cloud_ had taken on board a troop and
a half of the ill-fated Inniskillings, who had lost their colonel
(Colonel Moore) and many men, and fifty-six horses, in the burning of
the _Europa_. Now the authorities obliged them to cram one hundred and
ten horses into the hold, which was only constructed to accommodate
sixty. The very first night a tremendous storm arose, and continued
unabated for two whole days, during which men and officers were alike
incapacitated, and there was no one to soothe, feed, or water the poor
horses. When the weather cleared they were lying in heaps, and
seventy-five were dead. Ida saw all these lowered overboard—a pitiful
sight.
Meanwhile, the two strong hawsers by which the _War Cloud_ was attached
to the steamer which was towing her snapped like threads, and they were
left far behind, drifting at the mercy of the winds, which showed no
inclination to help them to Sebastopol. Presently they found themselves
off the coast of Circassia, whence they made their way back to Varna,
disembarked the horses that were still alive, and shipped a new lot. On
arriving they heard of the battle of the Alma, and vague reports
concerning Captain Cresswell, but so utterly contradictory that they
were not worth credence, so Ida was on the eve of starting to rejoin
him, together with his faithful soldier-servant and his two chargers—the
chargers of the dead.
Then at intervals followed letters confirming the awful truth, and
telling how on reaching Sebastopol, and finding that the officers who
had last been with her husband were unable to come to her, she decided
to go to them, right into one of the batteries, which was in full play.
She had just time to duck her head when a ball whizzed over her, and a
shell burst at her feet. But she had the sad satisfaction of hearing all
there was to learn, and recovering a few precious mementoes from
friends—Walter Charteris, Mr. Thomson, and several others, who were
killed on the following day in the awful battle of Inkerman, in which
three of our generals were killed and five were wounded.
As soon as possible she returned to her husband’s home and loving family
at Cresswell, but ere then the dear home of her girlhood, from which,
two brief years previously, she had gone forth such a happy bride, was a
forsaken nest, whence all the nestlings had flown. On that wedding day
her father had been in his happiest mood, well pleased to welcome as a
son-in-law one whom he already loved. The hilarity of the wedding
breakfast was nowise lessened because of the curious accident that
drunken men had carefully packed the wedding-cake upside down, so that
all the sugar-work was reduced to chaos. However, with an abundant
supply of flowers the ruin was effectually veiled, and only a few
ultra-superstitious guests ventured to whisper that it was an unlucky
omen.
For about nine months longer, constant letters to my sister Nelly from
George Grant kept us continually in touch with the appalling hardships
which our troops had to endure during that terribly prolonged war,
extending over two never-to-be-forgotten Crimean winters, most of his
work lying in the horrible trenches.
Even in England exceptional horrors seemed endless. Cholera was raging
in London to such an extent that whole streets were almost closed. The
newspapers reported nine thousand deaths. Several of these cases were
said to be real plague, and black flags were hung out from the infected
houses.
At the same time there was a frightful fire in Newcastleon-Tyne and
Gateshead, in which five hundred persons were reported as killed or
injured.
To return to our home-life at Altyre. The 24th October was one of the
loveliest days of the autumn. I had a long walk beside the Findhorn,
where the colouring was indescribably lovely, the foliage overhanging
the brown river still very rich, and of every brilliant tint that could
be conceived—sea and sky vividly blue, the distance wonderfully clear,
and Ben Wyvis and the hills beyond covered with dazzling snow. Tempted
by the sunshine, Sir William stood a long time without his hat and in
thin shoes at the front door talking to a friend, and so brought on a
cough. Afterwards we remembered Dr. Allan’s grave warning, that unless
he would go to a warm climate, the first snow would carry him off.
The following day being even more lovely, he and some more of the family
drove to Dunphail to luncheon with his brother, Charles Cumming-Bruce.
Towards sunset there was a shower of hail and a most beautiful rainbow
over Forres, together with an intense golden glow in the west, the light
on the falling hail looking like a shower of fire. That was my father’s
last drive. Two days later he began coughing up blood, and had to be
kept in bed in absolute quiet, and fed on iced food.
All his sons and daughters who were within reach now assembled at
Altyre—Penrose, Roualeyn, and Henry, Seymour and Oswin Cresswell—and
there were days when he was better and able to enjoy a little talk. At
all times he enjoyed hearing the family sing in parts in the adjoining
drawing-room. On the night of 22nd November he asked especially for some
of Moore’s Irish melodies; such as “Peace be around thee” and “Those
Evening Bells.” It was sorely trying for the singers to utter the words—
“And so ’twill be when I am gone:
That tuneful peal will still ring on.”
He had previously made me read the 12th chapter of Ecclesiastes,
probably more for my sake than his own, as he knew it so well. Towards 4
A.M. the great change was apparent. He bade my sister Nelly kneel beside
him and pray. After a little while of restless discomfort, his breathing
became more and more gentle, and closing his eyes he passed gently away,
like a tired child falling into a peaceful sleep.
When we left the dark, miserable room, and came out into the broad
daylight, the ground was white with the first pure white snow lying
lightly on every twig—as if all nature was wrapped in a fair shroud,
mourning with us for the going away of one who so devotedly loved all
things beautiful. Strange to say, about two hours after his death the
old pear-tree on the laundry-green, for which he had such a special
liking, and which he had belted with iron to preserve it, fell with a
loud crash, without any apparent cause.
When we next entered his room, he lay like a beautiful marble statue, so
smooth and fresh, not one wrinkle on the noble brow, round which the
bonnie waving curls clustered so thickly, and almost a smile on the
face. He had always such a cheery smile and kind word for every one.
We covered his bed with the lovely white camelias he had so longed to
see in blossom. Nell took him one of the first blooms—it was the last
flower he had in his hand, and when he had admired it he gave it to
Seymour to keep. He looked so calm and beautiful among the pure white
flowers. When my mother died he had covered her with sprays of
orange-blossom from her own favourite trees. Happily in those days the
conventional sending of wreaths from florists (often in overpowering
numbers, to the destruction of all true sentiment) had not been
invented, or at any rate had not reached the north.
[Illustration:
_Emery Walker. ph. sc._
_Sir William Gordon Gordon-Cumming._
_Painted by Saunders about 1830._
]
He was still beautiful and almost life-like when, seven days later, he
was laid in his coffin, on which were arranged his favourite plaid and
the ornaments of his Highland dress. The day of the funeral was one of
brilliant sunshine—all the snow had vanished. There was an immense
gathering of people at the preliminary service by Mr. M‘Intosh, the
parish minister of Rafford, and upwards of fifty carriages and farmers’
gigs formed the procession at starting; but the number was nearly
doubled ere it reached Gordonstoun and the dear old Michael Kirk, where
the episcopal clergy of Forres and Elgin awaited the coming of one more
silent sleeper.
I am tempted to quote a few words from one of the county papers:—
“Sir William was the life and spirit of the place, one whose
ever-cheerful countenance gladdened all hearts. To the poor he was
always kind and affable, to all classes courteous and accessible. As a
landlord he was constantly occupied in the improvement of his
extensive estates, and in promoting the comfort of his tenantry. His
hospitality made Altyre for nearly half a century the great
rallying-point of the North, and besides the multitudes who depended
on him for their daily bread, never did the tongue or look of
necessity appeal to him in vain. He had always a warm greeting for
high and low, young and old, and his very voice rang with the joyous
kindness that glowed within towards every human being.”
Those who have passed through such a trial as that of leaving a loved
home under such circumstances, know how much the pain is accentuated by
the sudden invasion of officials, who heretofore would have deemed it a
privilege to be allowed to see the inside of the house, now bustling
about, sealing up cupboards and places where valuable papers or goods
could possibly be stored, and making inventories with surprising
valuations of objects of whose real value they know absolutely nothing.
For my sister and myself, personal anxiety as to the immediate future
was set at rest by our kind brother-in-law, Oswin Cresswell, who offered
us both a permanent home at his own lovely Harehope.
This happy solution, however, received a temporary check; for my own
general upset, which seemed so natural under the circumstances, resulted
in my wakening one morning the colour of a well-boiled lobster,
whereupon the doctor pronounced it to be a decided case of scarlet
fever, but how caught no one could imagine. The result was the immediate
flight of every one who could possibly leave the house, only my sister
and our old nurse, and our ever-faithful lady’s-maid, Catherine Bruce,
remaining with me, and of course the necessary household staff, whose
premises were all far removed from my room.
Happily the attack proved to be a very mild one, and, on the whole, we
were really thankful for the three weeks of absolute quiet and
breathing-time ere the final wrench. As an interval of quarantine was
essential ere joining the family party at Harehope, it was decided that
we should first go to lodgings at the Bridge of Allan, and thence to our
dear old uncle and aunt, the Cumming-Bruces, at her own place, Kinnaird,
near Larbert.
So on 22nd December, in a downpour of rain, and with very heavy hearts,
we left dear Altyre and poor old Nan, looking the picture of desolation.
We proceeded by coach from Forres to Aberdeen, where we slept, and next
day by rail to the Bridge of Allan, where very pleasant rooms had been
secured for us at Mrs. Haldane’s lodgings, Viewforth House. It was well
named, for, standing high above the little town (as it then was), our
windows commanded a fine view of the Ochils, and also of Stirling Castle
and town, with the distant range of the Grampians, all dazzlingly white.
And through the valley outspread before us the river Forth meandered
like a perpetual reiteration of the letter S, while the “Banks of Allan
Water” recalled the pathetic song concerning the miller’s lovely
daughter.
Kind friends had met us at every halting-point, and also awaited us in
Stirling, so that our first experience of starting in life on our own
account was mitigated so far as possible. Nevertheless, as in the quiet,
misty night we looked down from our windows past a tall church spire
rising from below the hill, we felt as though Tennyson had spoken for us
when he wrote of “how strangely falls our Christmas eve.”
BRIDGE OF ALLAN,
_Christmas, 1854_.
IN MEMORIAM.
CANTO CIII.; CANTO CIV.
“The time draws near the birth of Christ;
The moon is hid, the night is still;
A single church below the hill
Is pealing, folded in the mist.
“This holly by the cottage-eave
To-night, ungathered shall it stand;
We live within the stranger’s land,
And strangely falls our Christmas eve.
“Our father’s dust is left alone
And silent under other snows:
There in due time the woodbine blows,
The violet comes, but we are gone.”
TENNYSON.
CHAPTER VII
Life in Northumberland—My Sister Eleanora’s Wedding—Alnwick Castle in
1855 and 1892—Serious Illness—Death of Oswin and Seymour Cresswell.
A few weeks later we were thoroughly settled at Harehope, and as the
summer advanced we enjoyed long drives to all points of chief interest
in the neighbourhood, such as Holy Stone village in the Harbottle Hills,
where there is a great pool of very pure water, in which St. Paulinus is
said to have baptized three thousand converts in the days when
Northumbria was still a heathen land.
One day we drove and boated to Lindisfarne, to visit the noble ruins of
St. Cuthbert’s Old Priory—not, however, the original building, for that
was destroyed by the Danes in the tenth century, and these grand old
Norman arches of dark red sandstone were built in 1094, when in honour
of its martyrs it was named “The Holy Isle.”
Bamborough and Dunstanborough were favourite picnic-grounds, while
Esslington, delightful Chillingham and Alnwick Castles, and many other
homes of kind and pleasant neighbours, all within easy reach, supplied
ample society, to say nothing of a genuine Northumbrian harvest-home
dance at the farm.
The weary Crimean war still wore on, but many of the officers who from
the beginning had borne the brunt of its hardship now returned to
England, and amongst these was our cousin, George Grant of Grant, who
now came to lay his laurels at the feet of his fair ladye, and to claim
her promised hand.
And so, on October 2, 1855, the old village church of Eglingham was the
scene of a very pretty country wedding, and friends from far and near
assembled at Harehope, where triumphal arches, with masses of scarlet
rowan-berries outside, and really beautiful trophies of Grant and
Cumming and Gordon tartans, and stag’s-horn moss indoors, gave colour
enough to brighten a somewhat grey and misty day. Kind neighbours, who
remembered how recently Harehope had been a bare hillside, sent generous
gifts of beautiful fruit and flowers. And so, with every promise of a
bright future, the young couple started for their honeymoon in the
English lakes, whence they returned a month later in high health and
spirits to revisit Harehope, ere turning northward to make a home in
Scotland.
They had only been back a few days when George was suddenly seized with
a choleraic attack, and such severe pain that local medical skill failed
to give him relief, and it became necessary to telegraph to Edinburgh
for Dr. Miller, who by a prompt course of blistering succeeded in
relieving the pain, but it was fully three weeks ere the patient was
sufficiently convalescent to venture out.
Meanwhile, on November 15, my sister Seymour had added a fifth little
one to her nursery, my little god-daughter Constance—a fine healthy
baby, warmly welcomed by all. According to Northumbrian custom, a large
cheese, or kebbock, known as “the crying-cheese,” was at once produced,
together with a loaf and a bottle of whisky, and every one in the house,
or entering it, was required to eat and drink for good-luck to the baby.
Six weeks later a happy family party assembled for baby’s christening in
the village church by Mr. Coxe, the vicar (Archdeacon of Lindisfarne),
the same dear old friend who had so recently officiated at my sister
Nelly’s gay wedding. Little did any one then foresee how very soon he
would be called upon to minister under very different circumstances,
when that little one would be left doubly orphaned.
One of the interests of the neighbourhood at this time was the extensive
work going on at stately Alnwick Castle, where “the Sailor Duke
Algernon” and Duchess Eleanor then reigned. There was much anxiety that
the rebuilding of the great Prudhoe Tower should be finished before the
Duke’s birthday—December 15th. This was accomplished, notwithstanding
the intense cold, by working with hot mortar; and the builders were kept
alive during the snowstorms by oft-repeated jorums of hot ale and
ginger. So the great feat was performed, and after the firing of many
guns, the new flag was hoisted amid tremendous cheering, the town being
crowded. Then all the school-children had roast beef and plum-pudding to
their hearts’ content, and in the evening there were fireworks and
fire-balloons which gave great delight.
Having decided that, notwithstanding the Gothic and partly Old Norman
exterior of the castle, the interior of the great state-rooms should be
decorated in the richest Italian style, the Duke resolved as far as
possible to employ local talent, and so, having imported Italian
teachers, he started a school for wood-carving, which wonderfully soon
turned out exquisite work.
I used to delight in seeing this in progress, or when laid out in
compartments on the floor preparatory to being raised to the ceilings,
where, alas! in most of the rooms a further process of gorgeous painting
and gilding, although wondrously beautiful, nevertheless detracts, in my
eyes, from its original perfection. Except to the expert who notes the
wonderful undercutting, the richly gilded carving, or its flat blue or
crimson background, might almost as well be stucco. Certainly this
wealth of colour is more in keeping with the rich crimson or yellow
satin damask hangings of all the walls and corresponding furniture, but
it is a real joy that in the great dining-room the noble ceiling has
been left in its primitive beauty, most restful to the eye. Happily all
the very handsome carved doors and shutters were left uncoloured, as
also the rounded Italian tops of all the windows, and dado of beautiful
inlaid wood round all these rooms.
The fine marbles on the walls of the private chapel and the staircase
all suggest the same Italian inspiration, so that while externally the
grand old castle is a dream of feudal England, internally it is a
gorgeous reproduction of Italian Renaissance.
It so happened that the first Italians who came to the castle were
Signor and Signora Bulletti, who knew little or no English. It was
therefore great joy to them to find a very charming young Italian lady
acting as governess to my sister’s children. There was also a German
governess to give the children all possible advantages.
Signorina Banchi acted the part of a good angel to her countrywoman; but
ere long the great architect of the works, Signor Montiroli, arrived,
and he fully shared our admiration for this ministering spirit. Though
he returned to Italy in single blessedness, he came back ere long to
protest against leaving such a treasure beneath a grey Northumbrian sky,
and so, on October 13, 1856, just a year after my sister’s wedding, our
pretty “Bijou” followed her example, the happy couple being married in
the Roman Catholic Church at Alnwick. Now, who would have expected to
come across a real Italian romance at so unlikely a spot?
Thirty-six years later, on my return from distant wanderings, I spent a
very delightful week in the old castle, to share in the rejoicings on
the coming of age of Lord Warkworth (now Lord Percy). It was in every
respect a scene of quite unique interest.
In the first place, the castle itself and all its beautiful
surroundings, with the noble park and river, are like a dream of some
old-world or fairy legend, as also is the way in which the great House
of Northumberland has ever kept up the best of the old feudal relations
with its almost innumerable tenants of every rank, so that this festival
was no mere outward pageant, but the expression of real all-round
loyalty by the retainers of a loved house.
The castle guests assembled on May 9, 1892. We were forty-two at dinner
in the beautiful crimson satin damask dining-room.
On the following day there was a grand dinner to about sixteen hundred
tenants in the guest-hall and the great covered court—the latter being a
huge temporary hall improvised by covering the great stable-yard with a
tent roof. The whole was decorated in mediæval style, with armorial
shields, large mottoes, banners, armour, pictures, and, of course, with
evergreens. One large trophy was formed of the old flags and weapons of
the volunteer corps of yeomanry, artillery, and infantry, raised by Duke
Hugh II. in the days when an invasion by Napoleon was dreaded.
One end of the great temporary hall was covered by a spirited picture of
a mediæval tournament, with knights tilting in a meadow beside the sea
at Warkworth Castle, and the walls of the guest-chamber were hung with
fine old tapestry. The tenants were seated at twenty-seven tables in the
great hall, while the house-party (gentlemen, no ladies—we ladies
occupied a gallery overlooking the whole) had a raised table in the
guest-chamber, so as to be well seen by all. Behind Earl Percy (the
present Duke) stood a trumpeter or bugler, who blew a resounding call to
herald each toast or response.
Lord Percy was acting for his father, as it was deemed wiser that the
fine old Duke, then in his eighty-second year, should be spared the
unavoidable fatigue of such a week. But the other grandfather (Lady
Percy’s father), the Duke of Argyll, and Lord Lorne, were present to
represent the Campbell side of the family.
One day about three thousand guests assembled at a great garden-party.
Two thousand invitations were issued to all the principal tradesmen and
neighbours, each to “So-and-so and party,” which was a liberal order.
The temporary hall was cleared for those who preferred dancing, even by
daylight, and certainly the excellent band and pipers from Edinburgh
were quite inspiriting.
Another day all the schools of Alnwick and the neighbourhood assembled,
to the number of fully two thousand children, who, notwithstanding some
light showers, had an ideal day of feasting and shows. On the last day
there was a dinner for fifteen hundred workmen and their wives; and
besides these, multitudes who could not come to Alnwick had dinners in
their own villages, or sent to their own homes.
One day was reserved for county neighbours, and for a very brilliant
ball in the great drawing-room, while in the dining-room the display of
priceless gold-plate on buffets lighted by electric light, was like a
tale from the _Arabian Nights_. Specially lovely on that occasion was
the beautiful music-room; its walls of yellow satin damask forming a
perfect background for a profusion of lilac orchids from the great
gardens of Syon House.
Not only within the Castle grounds was there festival. The whole town of
Alnwick was most beautifully decorated, and at night illuminated; and
throughout the week, with the exception of one doubtful forenoon, the
weather was absolutely perfect; and so the splendid fireworks which
followed the great dinner to the tenants were seen to the greatest
advantage. At night we all adjourned to the park to witness the
beautiful display, which was enhanced by the burning of coloured fire on
the battlements and the walls, the clouds of coloured smoke producing
most weird, and really somewhat alarming effects. A final bouquet of two
hundred rockets was hailed with shouts of delight by old as well as
young folk.
One detail of very real interest was a visit to the underground
kitchens, where such excellent and abundant food had been produced
within a week for nine thousand people, a large number of whom, being
household or guests, had to be fed four times daily. We were welcomed by
the great English _chef_, Mr. Thorpe, the same who, twenty-five years
previously, had organised similar feasting on the coming of age of Lord
Percy (the present Duke). His staff consisted of thirteen cooks and a
dozen other men, with thirty women—in all, fifty-six people. I was much
amused at seeing twelve women stirring sixteen hundred pounds of
plum-pudding!
I observed with some surprise that all the beautiful ornamental sweets
and cakes that were untouched at the ball-supper the previous night were
set out for the school-children, but the _chef_ said, sympathetically,
“The children like pretty things.” So they do, especially when so very
good!
These kitchens (or their ancestors!) must have been dreary indeed in
olden days of dim oil-lamps, but now brilliant electric light reigns,
and illumines even the dismal “bottle-shaped” dungeon, into which of old
prisoners were let down, never again to see the sun.
A long new tunnel, lined with pure white glistening tiles, had been
constructed underground for a small railway, whose little trucks brought
all the courses right under the dining-room lift, and to a further point
to supply the great temporary hall. Along the intervening distance were
stationed a regiment of immovable waiters, who passed the dishes from
one to another, as skilled firemen hand on their buckets, instead of
running to and fro. Besides all the waiters, about a hundred neat
waitresses took care that all the multitudes were well and quickly
served.
This week of rejoicing in Northumberland, with bonfires and feasting on
all the estates, was followed by festivities on a smaller scale at
Albury in Surrey, and ended with a great London garden-party at Syon
House.
To return from these festivities in 1892 to our quiet life in the spring
of 1856.
The even tenour of life, sometimes at Cresswell, but chiefly at
Harehope, continued till 21st February, on which my sister Seymour and
Baby Constance both became ill with bad sore throat and red, swollen
skin. The doctor came and pronounced both to be suffering from
erysipelas. Both became worse and worse; in the mother’s case it was
confined to the head, while baby had it all over her tiny body.
On Friday, 29th (it was leap year), while superintending the
farm-drainers, Oswin took a chill, and at night was seized with violent
shivering and sickness. He came to breakfast looking like a grey
ghost—the strong stalwart man seemed literally to have shrunken. Yet,
ill as he was, he said he must go to Alnwick to engage servants for an
extra farm which he had decided to take into his own hands.
Of course by night he was very much worse, and on the following days he
was compelled to stay in bed, the good old coachman devoting himself to
his master, as the womenfolk had their hands so fully occupied with the
other invalids. Although his dear old mother had driven over from
Cresswell to see baby, she was not allowed to see her son or my sister
on account of her own exceeding delicacy. I, aged eighteen, was the only
other relation in the house, and I was sitting up every night with baby.
On March 4th my sister and baby were both so very ill that I telegraphed
to Edinburgh for Dr. Miller, who arrived that night, and pronounced
that, seriously ill as they both were, Oswin was much more so, as his
was undoubtedly a case of typhus fever, that it would probably be
twenty-one days ere he reached the crisis, but that his strength was far
too low for such an early stage of the disease. He said he would at once
send trained nurses from Edinburgh, and till their arrival the faithful
coachman must guard his master, as I was to be with the other patients,
and it was necessary to establish quarantine.
Next day we sent the children and governesses to Cresswell; my sister
had become wildly delirious, baby was worse, and Oswin’s strength was
failing rapidly, notwithstanding all efforts to sustain it. By the time
the trained nurses arrived he was delirious, and soon became
unconscious.
At 5 A.M., March 6th, they admitted me to his room, and a few minutes
later he passed away. No one was more utterly astounded than kind Dr.
Miller himself when at noon he returned from Edinburgh; and in truth it
seemed incredible to all that the man who that day week had seemed to be
the very embodiment of health and strength could have passed away,
literally “like snaw-drift in thaw.” He was only thirty-seven years of
age.
The doctors told us that it was essential to keep my sister in ignorance
of the awful truth, as any shock would turn the erysipelas to the brain,
and probably prove fatal. In her delirium she seemed to have some
consciousness of something being amiss with him, for again and again she
tried to spring from her bed to go to him, and it was heartrending to
hear her asking why he did not come to her. Baby continued on the verge
of life or death.
As consciousness gradually returned, the strain of having constantly to
watch lest any unguarded look or word should arouse her suspicions,
became almost unbearable, and we were thankful when Dr. Wilson consented
to our letting her know all before the funeral. So on the previous
evening, when the doctor had prepared the way by bringing her very bad
accounts of dear Oswin’s condition, our kind, fatherly friend,
Archdeacon Coxe, went to tell her there was no hope—and gradually led on
to the truth that he had already been called away.
By this time our dear sister Ida had come from Cresswell to be with us,
and we three sat together at poor Seymour’s window to see the coffin
carried from the house on its way to old Woodhorne Church, near
Cresswell and the sea—the first of our own generation to be laid there,
but now the resting-place of three of my sisters, and of many other dear
companions of my early years.
From that window we looked down on many details of dear Oswin’s
unfinished work—the half-made approach to the house—it was barely ten
years since he had decided to build the house itself—the half-levelled
bank, half-turfed path, the unfinished wall and railing, the site of the
lodge just staked out, the young trees which he had just bought in
Alnwick for his plantation, lying in bundles all unheeded, the field
which he had been draining on that fatal Friday—all these suggestions of
the work of the strong, capable man so suddenly called away, one by one
impressed themselves on the poor, half-conscious mind, and enabled it
gradually to realise all.
Little by little strength returned, and about a fortnight later it was
arranged that we should all rejoin the family at Cresswell. But
considering the extremes of heat and cold to which I had been exposed in
passing from much-heated sick-rooms through bitterly cold passages,
where doors and windows were kept open for fear of infection, it is
perhaps not surprising that severe pain in all my limbs should have set
in, and developed into an agonising and dangerous attack of rheumatic
fever, which rendered me absolutely helpless for six weeks, during which
my sister Ida and her maid nursed me day and night with most devoted
care. I could not even move one finger from its neighbour—each had its
own little pillow, so my nurse’s patience was sorely taxed.
When at length I was so far convalescent as to be able to walk into the
next room, my sister Seymour, who had gone to her children at Cresswell,
returned thence to see me. On arrival she confessed that she too was
suffering from severe pain in her limbs, and for a fortnight she also
was helplessly laid up. At the same time the pretty Italian governess
endured a similar attack at Cresswell, which, if not actually rheumatic
fever, was few degrees less painful.
I was warned on every hand that there was every probability of my having
frequent future returns of this most unpleasant illness, but I am
thankful to say that I have never had the slightest indication of
it.[35]
After so sad an experience, it was decided that I must leave
Northumberland altogether for a while, so in the middle of May, Ida and
I went thence to stay with our sister Alice Jenkinson and her husband,
who were then renting a place in the vale of the Severn half-way between
Worcester and Malvern—the region of apple-orchards, alike beautiful in
blossom or in fruit.
There we rested, and revelled in roses, and saw all points of chief
interest, especially the whole process of making china and painting it
at the Worcester factory.
After about six weeks all trace of rheumatic fever had so entirely
vanished that I was able to climb to the summit of the Worcestershire
Beacon, where on one side we looked down into Hereford and right away to
the Wrekin in Shropshire, while on the other side lay outspread a vast
flat plain on which lie the towns of Upton, Worcester, Tewkesbury,
Cheltenham, and Gloucester.
I spent July in London with kind old Lady Dysart, doing the usual social
rounds, including a good many operas. Thence right away north to the
George Grants, who were renting Nairnside, some miles from Inverness,
from our cousins, the Mackintoshes of Raigmore. Of course there was
constant coming and going between these two homes, both of which, on my
arrival, I found crammed for a very good “cattle-show” ball, which a
month later was followed by all the gaieties of the “Great Northern
Meeting.”
Afterwards we stayed at Castle Grant[36] for the Grantown games, which
were held on little Lord Reidhaven’s birthday, so the proceedings began
by one hundred and twenty of the tenants, in Highland dress and headed
by flags and pipers, marching up to the castle to cheer the little Chief
and his parents. At night there was a most picturesque torchlight
dance—Highlanders, with a blazing torch in each hand, wildly dancing
reels on a raised platform on the lawn, lighted by flaring torches at
the four corners.
Then there was a very smart tenants’ ball, at which the pretty child
with the long fair ringlets appeared in black velvet, trimmed with old
point lace, and his Grant plaid, and was received with great applause,
in which he heartily joined. The memory-picture is interesting in view
of his deeply lamented death just as he attained to manhood.
Visits to many other kinsfolk in the north filled up a pleasant autumn,
and then winter slipped away at Polmaise, Airthrie Castle, Kinnaird, and
Edinburgh, which was then peopled with relations and intimate friends,
all of whom have now vanished “as a dream when one awaketh.” But they
were very real then.
So they also were in London, where I joined my sister Seymour in the
middle of March, she having by medical advice taken a house in Rutland
Gate for four months. Alas! from the time when she awoke to realise her
terrible loss she had utterly given way to grief, perpetually wandering
alone for hours and hours beside the grey misty sea at Cresswell, or on
the bleak moorlands at Harehope, and this had brought on an obstinate
hacking cough, which was becoming worse and worse.
So at last she consented to take her children to London for dancing and
other lessons, on which she laid great stress, and there she was so
surrounded by near relations, that she could not help being drawn into
sympathy with their interests also.
She was most anxious that I should go everywhere and see everything of
interest, and as there was no lack of kind kinsfolk willing to take
charge of me, I find the record of those months full of social
interests. But in the multitude of names of the companions of those days
and nights, I scarcely find the name of any one still on earth; only
here and there an allusion to the marriage of some bright young girl who
perhaps survives as a lone widow, or to some little child who is now a
grandmother.
Among the interests at that time—not “society”—I specially remember
Kean’s acting of _Richard II._, and the gorgeous _mise-en-scène_ of
Bolingbroke’s entry into London, scenery and dresses all adapted from
old pictures and chronicles.
Another vivid memory is that of going down the Thames by steamer and
being landed on the “Isle of Dogs,” there to inspect Scott Russell’s
monster ship, the _Great Eastern_, which was then—1857—being built. It
was not till after a long climb we reached the upper deck, that we fully
appreciated her enormous size. She was one-eighth of a mile in length,
and was designed to carry ten thousand people.
But the extraordinary facilities for travel, which since then have
created such a fashion for globe-trotting, had not then developed, and
so the ten thousand were never forthcoming, and as a passenger steamship
she proved a failure. Now much larger vessels belonging to American and
German companies can scarcely meet the demand for accommodation. So the
_Great Eastern_ was transferred to other service, and she had the honour
of carrying and laying one of the great Atlantic cables—I forget whether
it was the first or the second.
After being employed in this grand work, it was a sad come-down to hear
of her, about 1887, being anchored in the Mersey, with variety
entertainments on board to attract sightseers, and covered with gigantic
advertisements of a large mercantile firm. Eventually she was broken up
as being unfit for use. But her builders were the first who foresaw the
possibility of carrying ten thousand people at a time.
A similar vast number of human beings were constantly packed into the
Surrey Music Hall, where Spurgeon was then holding services, several of
which I attended, escorted by my stalwart brother Roualeyn. The perfect
silence of so vast a multitude was well-nigh as remarkable as the
eloquence and point of the preacher.
An expedition of very special interest was to Mr. Powell’s glass-works.
We drove to the Strand, where he showed us some fine stained-glass
windows, and then took us all over the factory and showed us glass in
every stage of development. Amongst other things of interest was the
manufacture of glass sticks, to be made into bugles for trimming
dresses, and, strangest of all, a piece of silk, brocaded with spun
glass, which looked like gold but could never tarnish. I sometimes
recall that day, when in St. Columba’s Church at Crieff I admire Mr.
Powell’s beautiful reredos of glass mosaic.
Young Oswin being now an Eton boy, we of course went to college for June
4th, and were duly lionised—playingfields, boats, and all the orthodox
round.
My sister did not gain in health while in London, and in July we
returned to Harehope, where (except that I occasionally stayed for a few
days with country neighbours), we remained stationary till the following
June, many members of the family constantly coming to stay for a week or
two.
All the neighbours were most kind in driving long distances to try to
cheer her who had been such a centre of brightness ever since she
entered the county, and also to arrange pleasant ploys for me. Foremost
among these were the Liddells from Esslington, Lord Ravensworth’s
daughters.
The nearest and most frequent of these kind visitors was Lady Olivia
Ossulston (now the Dowager Lady Tankerville), who was the very
incarnation of breezy sunshine, and who could cheer my sister better
than any one. Lord Ossulston’s singing (a lovely tenor) was truly
fascinating, as was also their group of five pretty children.
Towards the end of October they went to Paris to visit the Emperor Louis
Napoleon and Empress Eugenie, and were much interested by the cosy,
informal life at Compiègne, their country home. The guests numbered
sixty, but, including servants, there were nearly a thousand people in
the house. Every day the party drove about the forest in _char-à-bancs_,
each holding a dozen people, while the huntsmen, in very ornamental
costume, hunted either stags or wild boars. An open-air picnic, followed
by dancing, sometimes fitted into the programme. One day the
entertainment was varied by a paper-chase, in which the Emperor himself
acted the part of the “hare,” scattering showers of torn paper.
Every evening the party either danced to the music of a barrel-organ,
acted charades, or played children’s games, _petits jeux innocents_, the
Emperor and Empress joining with the greatest spirit. All these easily
amused people were amazed and delighted at the newly invented English
walking-dress, looped up over striped woollen petticoats, with coloured
stockings, as worn by Lady Olivia, the Duchess of Manchester, and Lady
Cowley.
What chiefly surprised the English guests was the total absence of any
furniture except chairs in all the principal rooms, and that (except a
few books in the Empress’s own rooms) there were no books nor anything
suggestive of any occupation.
All this time the Indian mails were a source of continual interest and
anxiety, on account of the Indian Mutiny, with all its horrors. Our
brother Bill was stationed in the Mhow district, far from any other
white men. Happily his native troops and servants loved him as a just
and wise man, and a very successful slayer of tigers, and so he passed
safely through many times of imminent danger. Having won the affection
of some of the wild Bheel tribes, he selected men of different tribes
not likely to coalesce for mischief, and so succeeded in forming a corps
of Bheel police, who did most valuable service.
Part of the time he was on duty at Indore, and then guarding the passes
of the Nerbudda while our troops were in pursuit of Tantia Topee. For
his excellent work all through these prolonged anxieties he received
warm thanks from the Indian Government. When after long years of active
service in India he settled down in Scotland, he wrote an account of
some of his personal adventures under the name of _Wild Men and Wild
Beasts_,[37] illustrated by his friend and fellow-sportsman, Major
Baigrie, a capital artist.
The long months at Harehope wore on; there was no longer any concealing
the certainty that Seymour’s ever-increasing illness was consumption in
its most trying form; many a time in her weary hours of dire suffering
and exhaustion did she speak of the cruelty of people who write romances
in which the heroine begins with an interesting hectic flush, and passes
easily away from life. She said that when the doctor first warned her
that by constant exposure to the cold, raw Northumbrian mists she would
bring on consumption, she only thought that it would be an easy way of
escape from her great sorrow, but that if she had had the faintest
conception of what in her case consumption would really mean, she would
have taken every possible precaution from the beginning.
Alas! this wisdom came too late, and her sufferings were terrible. All
through the weary winter and spring they wore on, and we watched the
breathless exhaustion which we could do nothing to relieve.
At the end of May, as several of the family needed to visit the dentist,
and as the George Grants were at Harehope, we left them in charge, and
went to Edinburgh for a few days, which also gave me an opportunity of
seeing several of my aunts, three grand-aunts (my mother’s aunts), and
many other relations and friends, amongst others, the Bishop of Argyll
(Ewing) and his daughter Nina. On Sunday afternoon, in St. John’s
Church, he preached a very striking sermon on “The night is far spent.”
We little thought how far for one of our family.
On June 3rd, George Grant arrived to tell us that the very night we had
started, dear Seymour had become very much worse, and after a terribly
prolonged struggle for breath, had passed away that morning. We returned
at once with her children, now doubly orphaned. In the morning they
helped to gather her favourite flowers, lily of the valley and blue
Brodie Columbine, and laid them on her breast.
A week later we sat in the same window whence, just two years before,
she had watched her husband being taken to his rest; and now she was to
be laid beside him in old Woodhorne Church. It was a long, weary six
hours’ journey of thirty miles for those who accompanied the funeral all
the way.
Thus ended our life at Harehope. Less than twelve years since, in bright
hope for the future, we had watched baby Oswin in his proud father’s
arms, lay its foundation-stone. Henceforth the children lived entirely
at Cresswell, and I found a home with my sister Nelly as soon as she and
George got settled.
My first move was to Wishaw, to my mother’s aunt, Lady Belhaven.
Although so surrounded by collieries, the old place retained much charm
from its gardens and the fine old trees on the high banks of the river
Calder, while indoors there were endless beautiful objects. But these
were as nothing compared with the marvellous art-treasures of Hamilton
Palace, which was a favourite drive; a never-failing source of interest
being a fine picture of my great-grandmother (Elizabeth Gunning) when
she was Duchess of Hamilton.
I returned there often on future visits, as also to the Duke’s Forest in
Cadzow Park, where there still remain some magnificent old oaks, and
also the herd of wild white cattle, which have some slight difference
from those I knew so well at Chillingham, the inner side of the ear of
the Scottish cattle being black, and that of the English being pink.
Both herds have black muzzles. But Lord Tankerville told me that his own
herd at Chillingham is now the only absolutely pure breed remaining,
each of the others having had a cross.
Another delightful home in that near neighbourhood was Barnscleugh, a
charming old place belonging to Lady Ruthven (another grand-aunt). It is
most picturesquely perched on the banks of the Evan, in the midst of
terraces with clipped yews and hollies.
From Wishaw I went to our dear cousins, the Campbells of Skipness, and
after a quiet, peaceful month, Colonel Campbell took his eldest daughter
and me for a tour in Argyllshire, to show me some of its chief beauties,
combined with getting some fishing himself. It was my first visit to my
mother’s county, and we had a most enjoyable time at Oban, Inveraray,
Dalmally, The Brander Pass, and many another lovely spot which in after
years became very familiar ground.
After this came long “homey” visits to the Cumming-Bruces at Dunphail,
to the Murrays of Polmaise at Craigdarroch, in Ross-shire, and to my
eldest brother at Altyre. (“Pen’s sylvania,” as Lady Anne Mackenzie
delighted to call it, in reference to the name by which we always called
him—Penrose, and his love for his beautiful woods.) Then to Raigmore,
and afterwards a very long visit to the Bishop of Moray and Ross, and
all the large family of Edens at Hedgefield, Inverness.
Up to about this date St. John’s was the only Episcopal Church in
Inverness, and as it was scantily filled, its congregation was not very
well pleased when the Bishop decided on purchasing a building beside the
river Ness, which had originally belonged to the Free Church, and had
then been hired by my brother Roualeyn as a temporary museum in which to
exhibit his South African trophies. In this “upper chamber” the Bishop
commenced holding very hearty services, and the little hall was quickly
filled to overflowing.
But when he suggested the erection on the opposite bank of the river of
a large church which should be recognised as the cathedral for the
diocese of Moray and Ross, the scheme was deemed absolutely visionary.
Nevertheless, such was his strong personal influence, that ere long the
fine building became a reality. In the autumn of 1865, the Archbishop of
Canterbury laid the foundation-stone of what was thenceforth to prove
the “Church-home” of a crowded congregation.
[Illustration:
_Emery Walker. ph. sc._
_Elizabeth Gunning, Duchess of Hamilton as Helen of Troy_
_by Gavin Hamilton._
]
CHAPTER VIII
At Home on Speyside—The Last Call to Arms of Clan Grant—A Double
Funeral—Macdowal Grant of Arndilly—Aberlour Orphanage.
The George Grants being now comfortably settled at Easter Elchies, on
the banks of the Spey, early in January 1859 I joined them there at what
proved to be their happy home for the next eight years. It is one of the
many minor properties of the Earls of Seafield, and so at that time
belonged to George’s brother, from whom he rented it. It is a
comfortable old house, commanding a beautiful view looking in one
direction down the river to Craigellachie, a noble wooded crag, with the
river sweeping round its base, and a fine bridge at right angles to the
crag. On the further bank lies the village of the same name, and beyond,
above beautiful Arndilly, rises the fine heathery mountain Ben Agan.
Looking in the opposite direction, up the river lie the house and
village of Aberlour, above which rises Ben Rinnes (2747 feet in height).
Curiously enough, near Grantown, another crag likewise bears the name of
Craigellachie, “the beacon crag,” and from it Clan Grant takes one of
its two mottos, “Stand Fast,” and the war-cry “Craig-Ellachie.” What a
romance of olden times it seems when we think of the fiery cross being
carried “o’er mountain and through glen” by fleet-footed runners to call
the clan together for a fray. And yet it was only seventeen years before
I was born that (in 1820) Clan Grant was thus hastily called together
for the defence of Lady Ann and Lady Penuel Grant, who were then living
at Grant Lodge,[38] in Elgin, taking care of their brother, Lord
Seafield, the fifth earl, who was of weak intellect.
Lady Ann was very much the reverse, and was greatly revered by Clan
Grant, who virtually regarded her as their chief,[39] although her
brother, the Honourable Colonel Francis William Grant of Grant, was
really curator for the earl, and succeeded him in the title. He does not
seem to have been in Elgin at the time I refer to. He had been Provost
of the town for three years, but in 1819 was succeeded in that office by
Sir Archibald Dunbar of Northfield. It was then customary for county
gentlemen to act in that honourable capacity, and the annals of Nairn
record that my father and his brother Charles were elected again and
again to be Provost of Nairn.
The death of King George III. (29th January 1820) necessitated a general
election, and a meeting of the Town Council of Elgin was called to elect
a delegate to represent the burgh on the day of the election at Cullen.
General Duff, the popular brother of Lord Fife, was the Whig candidate,
and Mr. Robert Grant, Lord Glenelg’s well-beloved younger brother, who
had hitherto been the Tory member, refused to stand against him, so his
place as Tory candidate was taken by Mr. Farquharson of Finzean, who was
little known, and far from popular. General Duff was well known, and
warmly supported by Lord Fife, who, fearless of any charge of bribery
and corruption, freely bestowed gifts of all sorts among the poorer
electors—money, trinkets, dresses, shawls, bonnets; and by exceeding
courtesy to all, and stirring addresses, so turned the tide of popular
favour, that the issue of the election became a matter of extreme
anxiety.
Members of the Town Council were equally divided, the casting vote
resting with the Provost, Sir Archibald Dunbar, who at this critical
moment was absent. All stratagems being deemed fair, several voters were
kidnapped and forcibly abducted. The Duffs captured Mr. Dick, a
councillor in the Grant interest, and hurrying him into a post-chaise,
drove him off to the seaport of Burghead, where a boat lay ready to
carry him across the Moray Firth to Sutherland. There he was set at
liberty, but was so hospitably entertained that Elgin saw him no more
till after the election.
The Duffs also captured Bailie Taylor, who was acting chief magistrate,
and carried him down a back lane to where a post-chaise awaited him
likewise, and conveyed him also to the coast, where an open boat lay in
readiness to take him also to Sutherland. A storm arose, and for
seventeen hours he and his captors were tossed about in some danger.
Finally they managed to land at Brora, and eventually got home after the
election.
The excitement became so great that Lady Ann considered herself and her
brother and sister to be in danger, and so sent a message to Speyside
addressed to young Patrick Grant (son of Major John Grant of
Auchterlair), bidding him, “Young as you are, rally the Highlanders, and
come to the rescue of your Chief.” That young Highlander lived to be one
of Scotland’s bravest soldiers, Field-Marshal Sir Patrick Grant, and
from his own lips, as well as from others, I learnt all details of this
his first experience of prompt action as a leader of men.
The express reached Cromdale on Sunday morning, just as the church was
“scaling” (_i.e._ the congregation dispersing), and three hundred
able-bodied men started then and there, a summons being sent to the
remoter glens to bid others follow with all speed. They marched down
Speyside with such goodwill that they reached the village of Aberlour in
the night, and still pressing on, reached Elgin at about 3 A.M.
But as they passed through Aberlour, an adherent of the other faction,
the Duffs, despatched a mounted messenger in hot haste to warn the Earl
of Fife and the Duff party. The messenger reached the town in time to
rouse the sleepers, who rapidly armed themselves with old swords,
bludgeons, and other weapons, and formed a guard for the protection of
such members of the town council and magistrates as were favourable to
the Duff candidate, and therefore liable to be captured by the Grants.
The Highlanders, finding the townsfolk on the alert, marched to the
grounds of Grant Lodge (adjoining the beautiful old cathedral). There a
few hours later they were joined by about four hundred more staunch men
and true, ready to obey the behest of their chief. Under the
circumstances, it must have been somewhat a difficult matter to provide
food for seven hundred hungry men, though doubtless even the enemy would
be ready so far to conciliate the invaders.
Ere noon, large bodies of the Earl of Fife’s tenants assembled from the
sea-board villages, and other estates, armed with bludgeons, so there
was a strong probability that a collision might ensue, more especially
as “the mountain dew” was flowing freely on all sides.
To avert this grave danger, Sir George Abercromby, the sheriff of the
county, escorted by the clergy, came to crave an interview with Lady
Ann, and to entreat her forthwith to bid her noble guard return to
Strath Spey. Sir Patrick Grant told me that the civic authorities came
and knelt before her, praying her to consent, which she finally did, on
the assurance of the sheriff that special constables would be sworn-in
to ensure peace.
This was accordingly done, and the “specials” patrolled the streets all
night, but so great was the dread lest the Highlanders should return to
carry off members of the council known to be favourable to the Duffs,
that the townsfolk resolved to watch all night, and illuminate their
houses, so that no one might approach under cover of darkness. (An
attempt at lighting the streets in 1775 had quickly been abandoned, and
till gas was introduced in 1830, not a glimmer illumined the night.)
That danger was by no means imaginary was proven by the kidnapping which
had already taken place. The very day but one later, was that appointed
for the election by the town council of the delegate, but owing to the
abduction of Councillor Dick and Bailie Taylor, the Grant party absented
themselves from the meeting, so, although the Duff party nominated their
delegate, there was neither town clerk nor town seal to attest the
commission, which consequently was invalid.
When the kidnapped councillor and bailie returned, they in their turn
called a meeting, and, thanks to the casting vote of the provost,
elected the delegate in the Grant interest, whose commission was duly
attested by the town clerk and town seal. Though much legal discussion
ensued, the vote of Elgin in favour of the Grant candidate was
sustained, and Mr. Farquharson was elected member for the district of
Burghs.[40]
Many years elapsed ere the ill-feeling stirred up at this time abated,
and bitter family divisions and estrangement of old friendships
continued for a whole generation.
To us, however, the interest of the election turns on the picturesque
incident of this, probably the last rallying of a Highland clan for the
defence of its chief, and at the time of which I write many of the older
generation were able to speak as eye-witnesses of the start from
Cromdale.
Another incident which had vividly impressed itself on the hearts of the
Highlanders, was the deeply pathetic double funeral of George Grant’s
mother and eldest brother. The former, a beautiful and much-loved woman,
Mary Ann, only daughter of Charles Dunn, most unexpectedly died in
London, 27th February 1840, of measles, caught while nursing her
daughter Jane, who was said to have caught the infection while on a
visit to Lord Selkirk at St. Mary’s Isle, but it did not develop till
she reached London.[41]
Shortly before his death in 1903, the Honourable Lewis A. Grant, while
on a visit to his niece, Lady Walter Gordon Lennox, pointed out to her
the house in Belgrave Square in which his mother died, and to which he
and his brothers had been summoned to see her for the last time,
apparently regardless of possible infection.
Jane continued so seriously ill that it was impossible for her father to
leave her. The Cullen factor was accordingly summoned to London, and he
brought Mrs. Grant’s body by sea to Cullen by the steamer _North
Star_—the same by which, a few years later, I travelled on my school
journeys.
Her two eldest sons, Frank (Francis William), the young Master of Grant,
aged twenty-six, and his next brother, Ian (John Charles), starting a
few days later, travelled more rapidly by coach to Aberdeen, posting
thence to Cullen House (a beautiful family home on the sea-coast).
There they arrived on March 10th. The Master, never robust, and now
crushed with sorrow, had been unable to eat on the long journey, and
arrived utterly exhausted, feeling so unwell that the family doctor
prescribed as a simple remedy a Dover’s powder. Alas! when his servant
went to call him in the morning he was dead.
It was generally said that he literally died of grief. But as the
factor’s daughter, Catherine Fraser, who had to handle and arrange his
clothes, caught measles, as did also her child (although careful inquiry
failed to discover any other case of that illness anywhere in
Banffshire), there can be no doubt that his clothes carried the
infection, and it seems more than probable that the Master really died
of suppressed measles of a peculiarly virulent type, thrown inward by
the chill of the long, cold journey, and the preliminary funeral
arrangements when the coffin was shipped from the misty Thames.
The news of his untimely death caused the deepest consternation
throughout the clan, by whom he was idolised, his personal beauty and
bright, sunny nature (so like that of his youngest brother George)
having personally endeared him to them all. Never was there a sadder
scene than the double funeral on its long journey to Castle Grant, where
for several days the two coffins lay in state in the long drawing-room,
the mother’s coffin draped with black and the son’s with white, all the
pictures and the stairs being likewise covered with white.
For two days the mournful procession of townsfolk and tenants continued
passing through that sad room, and on the day of the funeral, the clan
assembled from far and near in heartfelt grief to follow the mother and
son whom all loved so truly, and the pipers played their saddest laments
while the solemn procession wended its way through the dark fir-forests
to Duthil, the family burial-place of the chiefs of Clan Grant, half-way
between Grantown and Carr Bridge, where, only the previous year, Colonel
Francis William had completed the new mausoleum, little dreaming that
the first to be laid therein would be his own wife and eldest son.
A curious detail of funeral trappings was that, while the hearse and
four black horses which conveyed the beloved mother were all bedecked
with tall, black ostrich-plumes, and the attendants wore black crape
scarves and weepers, the hearse and horses conveying the young Master
were adorned with white plumes, and the hearse was draped with white,
the attendants wearing white crape scarves.
In the same year, on the 26th October, the fifth Earl died, and once
again the clan assembled at Castle Grant to follow their chief to his
last resting-place at Duthil.
He was succeeded by his brother, Colonel Francis William, who, thirteen
years later, died at Cullen. Well do I remember watching his funeral
pass through the Altyre woods by the Highland road from Forres to Castle
Grant. My sister Nelly and I, with our Highland maid, lay hidden like
roe-deer among the tall bracken, chiefly to catch a glimpse of George in
that sad procession.
Many have been the changes in the immediate neighbourhood of
Craigellachie since the time when we lived there. The picturesque
village itself was a mere hamlet—now there are villas and a large hotel
and whisky distillery; then in all this district there were only about
three small distilleries. Nowadays the excellent quality of the water
has led to the establishing of about twenty great factories of
fire-water, dotted all over the country, in many a hitherto delightful,
secluded glen.
At that time there was no railway down Speyside from Grantown to Elgin,
or down Glen Fiddich from Keith, joining the other line at
Craigellachie, and crossing the Spey by a bridge a little lower down the
river than the beautiful carriage-bridge. All this was done before our
eyes on the opposite bank of the Spey. We had feared it would be a
continual eyesore, but, on the contrary, it proved on the whole a
picturesque feature in the general scene.
Moreover, we found considerable interest in making friends with many of
the navvies, of whom there were fully two thousand in the district. They
welcomed being recognised as human beings, and were touchingly grateful
for a very little kindness, especially in cases of sickness. A large
number of them could only speak Gaelic, which was to us an unknown
tongue, but we secured a grant for a large number of both Gaelic and
English Bibles and New Testaments, which were sold at a reduced
rate—also Gaelic tracts, which were welcomed and, I believe, in many
cases truly valued. I like to remember that my very first venture into
print was a leaflet to accompany these Bibles.
There was at that time no Gaelic service in the neighbourhood, but some
of the men themselves gathered others together and held open-air
meetings every Sunday in the Arndilly woods and at the quarry—very
pleasant in the sweet summer days, but a very trying ordeal in bitterly
cold winter. Partly for their benefit, but chiefly for that of other
lads in the neighbourhood, I started a lending library of really
readable books, which “took” very well for a while, but died away when I
left the district.
About three miles down the Spey, at beautiful Arndilly, lived Hay
Macdowal Grant, one of the saintliest and most lovable men I have ever
known. His one aim in life was to awaken or deepen the spiritual life of
every one with whom he came in contact, and undoubtedly his efforts and
his prayers were often crowned with success. He loved to fill his
delightful home with large parties of happy young people, to all of whom
he and his kind wife were “Uncle Hay and Auntie Loo,” and many a lovely
ramble we all had under his escort.
Perhaps the most notable change in that district has been the creation
of the admirable Orphanage at Aberlour, on what was then a bare
hillside. Now an ideal group of cottage-homes, clustering round a
central hall, form the happy and real home of upwards of three hundred
children, poor waifs from many parts of the country and many cities,
who, but for this blessed haven, could have known no shelter but the
workhouse, or worse quarters. Now hundreds of well-to-do young men and
maidens, earning their own living in many parts of the world, speak with
warm affection of this, their only home; and many try, when possible, to
come to spend their brief Easter or Christmas holidays here, and attend
the church services at the beautiful episcopal church, which forms a
prominent feature in the grounds.
In our time it was a rare event to have an occasional episcopal service
in some one’s drawing-room, but somewhere about 1870 the Bishop sent the
Rev. Charles Jupp to live at Craigellachie and hold service regularly.
He and his wife had no children of their own, and their income was
infinitesimal, but when a poor little orphan child seemed somehow to be
thrust upon their care, they felt bound to do what they could for it.
Presently however, another and yet another seemed to be equally forced
upon them—poor little lonely creatures with no one to care for them. The
matter grew serious indeed, but they seemed to hear a Voice saying:
“Take this child and nurse it for ME,” so they agreed that if GOD really
intended them to tend HIS poor neglected little ones, HE would provide
the necessaries of life. So in this practical faith they accepted the
charge, and like George Müller of Bristol, Quarrier of Glasgow, and Dr.
Barnardo, they proved how faithful a Master they served.
Many a time their faith was sorely tried, when their great family went
on ever increasing, and food and firing were well-nigh exhausted, but
whenever they seemed quite at the end of their resources, help came from
some unexpected quarter.
So year by year this great work has developed, and under the hands of
the gifted organiser and a body of trustees, all has been placed on such
a sound business footing as to ensure the local authorities against the
possibility which they so much dreaded (and which for some years led to
considerable antagonism) lest the founder should die, and leave a large
pauper population dependent on the parish.
A monthly magazine now carries to all friends reports of work done and
gifts received, and invites purchasers to stock their gardens with
plants from the Aberlour Orphanage garden. All manner of gifts in aid of
this excellent work should be addressed to “The Rev. The Warden, The
Orphanage, Aberlour, Banffshire,” by whom all visitors to Speyside will
be cordially welcomed.
My journals of the next eight years are records of a very full social
life—of innumerable pleasant, leisurely visits to many relations and
friends scattered over England and Scotland, not forgetting London and
Edinburgh in their respective seasons, and a full share of very gay
doings. I must say that whatever we did in those days we did in earnest,
and however much bodily exercise in the way of walks, etc., we had got
through in the day-time, we were never too tired for frequent cheery
dances and balls, at which we all prided ourselves on never missing a
dance from the beginning to the end, which was never before 4
A.M.—sometimes much later. In short, we all had an apparently
inexhaustible fund of health and spirits.
As I turn page after page, full of details of that kaleidoscopic life,
it seems like watching the mazy dances of midges in the sunshine, never
for one moment at rest. And of all that multitude of active dancers, I
am now almost the sole survivor.
The autumn of 1859 was one never to be forgotten in our family annals.
The return from India, after prolonged service there, of the 78th
Highlanders, to be stationed at Fort George, half-way between Inverness
and Nairn, gave rise to a succession of enthusiastic “welcomes” in the
form of banquets, sports, and balls. This naturally attracted an unusual
number of visitors; and the Northern Meeting at Inverness in September
was quickly followed by a very cheery ball at Nairn, to which a hundred
and fifty people came by special train from Inverness, and all the
officers from Fort George, many of whom had only arrived that afternoon
direct from India, having been five months on the homeward voyage,
sailing round the Cape. (Now we can travel from London to Peking in
three weeks by Trans-Siberian Railway!)
Then followed a very gay ball at Rosehaugh, given by Sir James and Lady
Anne Mackenzie of Scatwell to the officers of the 78th and all the
neighbourhood from far and near. I was one of a large merry party who
drove all the way from Moniack—a distance of seventeen miles each way,
and as the ball was kept up till 6 A.M., the morning was far advanced
ere we thought of a little sleep.
Ten days later, Nairn entertained the whole regiment—such a
noble-looking lot of bearded men! The weather was glorious, and every
one walked about on the links beside the calm, blue sea, while the band
played.
A similar banquet at Inverness was quickly followed by a very brilliant
ball for the officers, and on November 4th they gave a return ball at
Inverness which, in point of tasteful decoration and general
satisfaction to all concerned, was voted an unqualified success.
To us, as a family, a main pleasure in all this autumn was that so many
of ourselves were in the north and constantly meeting. We four sisters,
Alice and John Jenkinson, Nelly and George Grant, Ida and myself, and
also our brothers, Penrose and Lady Gordon-Cumming, and Henry and his
Bessie, were together more than we had been for years. Little did we
dream that it was for the last time, and that one brief month later our
bright, beautiful sister Alice was to be taken from us.
But so it was. From Nairn we all scattered. I returned with my eldest
brother (Sir Alexander—to us Penrose) to Altyre, where he had a large
houseful. These dispersed a week later, as one of the guests developed a
gastric or typhoid fever. The children were sent away, but I elected to
stay and take some little share of nursing, and so it was in the quiet
of the old home that I learnt to face the great blank that nothing could
ever fill for any of us.
Alice and her husband and three little ones had reached Cresswell (in
Northumberland) on their homeward way, and as usual, she and Ida were
the life of the party, both in bright, happy spirits, and Alice in
excellent health except for a twinge of toothache. This must have got
worse in the night, for in the dark, not to disturb her husband, she had
vainly tried to open a tiny bottle of chloroform, a touch of which
sometimes eased the pain. She had therefore felt for and opened a larger
bottle, the fumes of which had overcome her, the bottle had fallen from
her hand, and her dear face had sunk to rest on that wet pool, to be
found cold and rigid when, in the morning of December 9th, her poor
husband awoke to find only that fair soul-case, from which the pure
spirit had been recalled to GOD WHO gave it.
So another of our happy band of sisters was laid to await the
resurrection morning in old Woodhorne Churchyard by the sea. The pure
white snow lay deep on the ground, and the day was bitterly cold, but
happily there was calm, bright sunshine and no wind to cause danger to
the many mourners who assembled from far north and south.
Our beloved “parson,” Mr. Jermyn, who had left Forres to face yellow
fever in the West Indies as Archdeacon of St. Kitts[42] (and had
recently returned, broken in health, and with a sadly diminished
family), came all the way from Somerset to speak the grand words of
promise: “I am the Resurrection and the Life. He that believeth in ME,
though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
believeth in ME shall never die.”
CHAPTER IX
The “Home-going” of Three Brothers.
I will pass over the many interests of the next five years, varied as
they were. They seem so small in comparison with the great realities
which we were called to face in 1865–66, when within nine months, three
of our brothers were taken from us, all in the prime of life, aged
respectively thirty-nine, forty-six, and fifty. Yet, dark as were life’s
shadows, we were blest with light more vivid than we had ever dared to
hope for—such as ought surely to keep faith and trust strong to the end,
whatever the future may have in store for us.
My brothers John and William had started simultaneously, about the year
1845, for their respective careers in the Far East—the former as a
cocoanut-planter in Ceylon, which he combined with much good useful work
for Government, the latter to do very varied work, military and
political, in the Bombay Presidency. Both incidentally found ample scope
for their skill as keen sportsmen in ridding the jungles of a multitude
of dangerous wild beasts—tigers in Bombay and leopards in Ceylon, with
many other creatures whose destruction rejoiced the natives, by whom
both brothers were truly loved.
In 1860, after the terrible anxieties of his work all through the
Mutiny, William came home for a brief spell of leave, but it was not
till 1865 that he could afford to do so for long, or, as it proved,
permanently. Then the two brothers agreed to meet in Ceylon and come
home together.
But when the time arrived, Bill found that the expense would be so
largely increased by this arrangement, that he relinquished the idea,
and came direct to London, fully expecting that John would reach England
about the same time. Alas! instead of his arriving we received the
grievous news that he had died on October 6th, apparently from a tumour
on the brain, in far away Batticaloa, on the further side of Ceylon,
most of which was then clothed with dense forest, and communication with
Colombo or Galle very slow and difficult.
Three months later, ere any relation could interfere, and without even
the knowledge of his friends on the other side of the isle, all his
worldly goods and the hunting-trophies accumulated during his twenty
long years of exile were sold by auction for a mere song,[43] and his
estate was declared insolvent. This did not at all tally with his own
recent reports. Curiously enough, he had written to tell me that he had
made a will leaving all he possessed to me, but the will was not found,
and the estate on which he had expended so much toil and money passed to
other hands.
All through these long years this most affectionate brother rarely
missed a mail in writing to one or other of us, often speaking of his
longing to return to Morayshire and to the dear home faces, and
wondering if there was no hope that any of us could visit Ceylon.
At that time the journey was so slow and so costly that this seemed
utterly out of the question, but so rapidly did these difficulties
become modified that, within two years of his death, several of his
relations did touch Ceylon, and a little later I myself went to visit
his grave, and was so fascinated with the loveliness of other parts of
the isle and the kindness of many friends, that I lingered there for two
years, sketching the very varied scenery and the wonderful “jungle
cities.”
Of course the pilgrimage of primary interest to me was to Batticaloa,
where John had lived and died, and where he had been laid to rest in the
peaceful “GOD’S acre” on the banks of the wide, calm river, its
stillness broken only by the ever-recurring boom, like distant thunder,
of unseen waves, for ever breaking on the coral strand, where beyond the
thick belt of graceful cocoa-palms which fringe its shore, lies that
great ocean which to him had for so many years been the sea of
separation from all whom he most loved.
In 1865–66 my brother Roualeyn was living in old Fort Augustus at the
head of Loch Ness, occupying a couple of the bare barrack-rooms, once
tenanted by the Duke of Cumberland’s soldiers.[44] He had some years
previously built a large handsome room near the Caledonian Canal as a
museum in which to exhibit what he still retained of his
hunting-trophies. Hating the trammels of conventional life, he chose to
live quite apart from us all, taking such sport as came in his way, and
finding in the wild mountainous districts all around him abundant scope
for his love of natural history.
Thus, in a letter to me dated Fort Augustus, April 1862:—
“I came home last night quite knocked up, having been a long, long way
over this district and Badenoch all alone, across a boundless,
desolate wilderness of sterile rocks and frozen lochs, and deep, great
wreaths of frozen snow—a region too barren for even heather to
nourish, and where the prevailing vegetation is grey moss and several
varieties of lichen.
“My object in undertaking a little pilgrimage through so toilsome a
tract was to reach the eyrie of the king of birds. Beyond the howlish
region I have described, I descended into a warmer temperature in a
most sequestered and romantic glen, where three mountain streams meet
and form a continuous succession of enchanting little pools and rugged
cataracts.
“High above them, in the upper ridges of the glen, are bold
overhanging rocks, and here for centuries a pair of golden eagles have
been known to locate, and return year after year to add a few fresh
sticks and heather to their already colossal nest. As soon as I made
the glen, a noisy little kestrel apprised the eagles of my approach,
and presently I observed the two noble birds soaring in the most
majestic manner high above the glen, and still ascending higher and
higher, the audacious little kestrel accompanying them in their aerial
revolutions to a great height, when I fancy he felt himself above his
sphere, and left the eagles to enjoy in uninterrupted solitude their
free and glorious flight.
“I was unlucky so far as securing the eggs I sought, but I found a
grand new nest all ready for eggs, and I purpose to pay another visit
to the glen.”
Later he wrote:—
“There is a Ned Luck’s[45] nest a hundred yards from my door
containing a young cuckoo, which ejected all the rest of the inmates.
I intend trying to train him and make a pet of him.”
In 1864 he wrote:—
“I devote much attention to the interesting study of the habits of
birds, especially the genus _falco_, from the golden eagle to the
peregrine falcon downwards. I obtained some very beautiful specimens
of the eggs of these noble birds this season. They are very hard to
obtain, being very rare and inaccessible.
“There are a number of interesting wild ducks which breed not far from
here, among which I may mention the velvet duck or scoter, which is
not generally supposed to build in Britain, as also the sheldrake and
the crested merganser, the widgeon, the mallard, and the teal. That
noble bird, the great black-throated diver, and also the red-throated
diver, nestle on certain green isles in lonesome lochs hereabouts.”
In his eagerness to secure the eggs of one of these black-throated
divers, he swam to an island on Loch Tarff on a bitterly cold day in
March 1865, and was so thoroughly chilled that he contracted a very
severe cough, which, though he made light of it, he was never able to
shake off.
About Christmas came tidings of his brother John’s death in Ceylon.
Roualeyn had loved him with the devotion of an elder brother for a
younger one who shared the same tastes and possessed much of the same
skill as a sportsman, and he had been looking forward anxiously to his
return.
[Illustration:
_Emery Walker. ph. sc._
_Roualeyn George Gordon-Cumming. in 1851._
]
Up to that time he was in apparently magnificent health, doing feats of
walking on mountains which amazed other sportsmen. But he had himself
been conscious of failing health, and the sudden news of John’s death
came to him as a crushing blow. He shut himself up in the old Fort, and
towards the end of February one of the men in charge of the canal-locks
sent a letter to tell my brother Bill that Roualeyn was very ill. He
started at once, sending the letter on to me. I followed the next day,
and then in quick succession came our brother Henry and his Bessie, and
Ida, who in life’s early days had ever been Roualeyn’s special
“comrade.”
Kind neighbours provided sleeping-quarters for such of us as could from
time to time snatch a few hours away from our darling in that strange
sick-room in the grey old Fort. Its walls still bore the names, carved
in their leisure, by the Duke of Cumberland’s soldiers, and from the
wide open chimney, as in any Highland cottage, the black cooking-pot
hung above the low peat-fire (till we instituted a change). On the walls
hung some of his favourite deers’ heads, to which we added long trails
of stag’s-horn moss, and from one of these was slung an eagle’s wing,
with which we used to fan him, for, in the difficulty of breathing, he
could scarcely get air enough, though door and window were wide open all
through the bitter winter nights.
His iron bedstead was so narrow that I think it made him appear even
larger than he really was—he did look so grandly beautiful as he lay
there in a blue flannel shirt, with his old scarlet Cumming tartan plaid
thrown round his shoulders, and his masses of lovely silky curls brushed
straight back from his forehead like a golden halo. His hair was of a
rich nutty brown, and very glossy—not one grey hair had yet appeared. As
he slowly turned his grand head, it seemed like that of one of his own
lions, with a look of strange surprise in his beautiful eyes, as though
wondering what had befallen him.
Gladly did he welcome us, as one by one gathered round him, and for
seven days and nights we watched, thinking that each hour must be the
last, so terrible was the agony and the incessant coughing up quantities
of blood, consequent, Doctor Tolmie told us, on enlargement of the heart
and its pressure on the lungs. All this time and during the three weeks
that followed, kind, strong men from the canal-locks and other
neighbours, constantly came by turns to do all in their power to help
us, and his faithful piper, Tom Moffat, would soothe him for hours by
playing his favourite old Highland airs on the bagpipes.
At length there came a strange rally, so that for awhile it seemed
possible that he would live, and then, too, came that marvellous Light,
like a tropical sunrise, so dazzling and intense was the glow that shone
more and more unto the perfect day. It was as if suddenly a dark cloud
had been raised from his soul, and every word of his beloved mother’s
teaching came to him with a full, new meaning. She had made him learn by
heart many chapters of the Bible and hymns, and he remembered every
word. It was as if he had long possessed a box of treasures, of which he
had only then found the key.
All through these terrible days we had felt it impossible to speak to
him of holy things. At last one night I managed to say that our praying
for him was not enough—he must do so himself.[46] Then he told me that
for months he had been doing so when alone on the wild hills. But
knowing how little he had allowed his companions to imagine what was
passing in his mind, I reminded him of the necessity of “confessing his
Master before men.” There the conversation dropped, and for the next two
days he made no allusion to it, and I felt that I could not say a word.
But one night, when I shared the night-watch with Sandy, his gillie, a
tall, bonnie lad who sat in “the ingle neuk,” crouching over the fire,
he called him to his side, and began speaking to him with a wild,
passionate earnestness, such as I have never heard from any other
lips—speaking of his own wasted life and of the grand talents of mind
and body which GOD had given him for HIS own service, but which he had
so recklessly misused, and imploring Sandy to see to it that he lived
very differently and took warning by him.[47]
Then he bade him kneel beside his bed while he prayed, and his prayer
was like opening the floodgates of a mighty, pent-up torrent—the
agonised repentance of a strong nature, with its intense remorse for all
the irreparable past, and chiefly for having so often misled others, yet
with the simplest childlike trust in the perfect love and forgiveness of
his SAVIOUR, in HIS having sought and found HIS wanderer, and HIS power
to save and keep him from falling again.
From that hour, in every conscious moment (and likewise in many
unconscious ones, though sometimes his delirious utterances were sad and
pitiful to hear), his words were one long outpouring of faith and love.
To every one who came near him (especially to the kind canal
men—tenderest of nurses—who, after their hard day’s work, insisted on
sharing our watching), he continued to speak in the same strain, urging
them not to follow the example he had given them, but to begin a
different life. One day he had been speaking very earnestly; then he
looked troubled, remembering his own reckless life, but after a pause he
turned to them again, and said, “Remember, lads, out of the abundance of
the heart the mouth speaketh.” Often and often he would pray aloud,
simply and naturally, just as if he was speaking to ONE WHOM he saw
standing beside him.
The window of the room which we used as our family sitting and
dining-room and occasional sleeping-room looked right down Loch Ness,
which was constantly swept by wild snowstorms, while from Roualeyn’s own
window, though it looked into the grim courtyard, we could see the
beautiful Glengarry peaks, all dazzlingly white, and on these, morning
after morning, we watched the first gleam of dawn flushing the peaks
like crimson fire, while the lower land still lay shrouded in purple
gloom. One day, as I was watching this red light fade into dazzling
white and describing it to him, he whispered, “Though your sins be as
scarlet they shall be white as snow,” and he unmistakably accepted the
promise as his own.
All his words were like a wild, beautiful poem, so full of metaphors and
images drawn from nature, of hills and mists and storms, and of all
living creatures and flowers, all blended with human sympathy and
strange deep pathos. As I listened, I was continually reminded of the
so-called _Poems of Ossian_, which were collected by Macpherson in Skye,
and other remote mountain districts, in the original Gaelic, and by him
translated, at the suggestion of David Hume, the historian, and Lord
Lyndoch.
There were fluctuations in his illness, and for awhile even the doctor
thought he would live. He himself clung to this hope, chiefly, he said,
because he knew what influence he had with all the people around, and
that he could use it so differently. His devoted old tutor, Mr. M‘Watt
(Free Church minister of Rothes on the Spey), now came to see him, and
was a real help and comfort to him. To him he talked much of this hope
of living to work in the right cause.
But after awhile he seemed oppressed by the fear that he might not be
able to stand true, and again and again I heard him pray, “Suffer me not
to fall away from THEE.” It seemed like the answer to this prayer that
he was spared the sore test of life, and rapidly grew weaker. When Ida
one day spoke of her longing to keep him, and that they would never part
again, he said, “Oh, don’t wish that! I am very weary of this sad life,
and I long to get away to the Rest.” Little did we foresee that only
four years later she would follow him to the land where there shall be
no more partings, nor any more pain.
He constantly spoke of his mother in terms of deepest love, as also of
all his brothers and sisters, as if the long separation from his own
people, and the silence, had only deepened his heart’s yearning for them
all.
It grieved him to hear that Penrose, his eldest brother, was even then
suffering grievously, for, he said, “My pain makes me know what his must
be. My Maker, my Saviour has humbled me sorely, but it has all been to
draw me closer to Himself.” And with his whole soul he pleaded for his
suffering brother. Almost his last utterance was a wild, passionate cry
for him, addressing him by all the old pet-names. Afterwards this seemed
to us like a prophetic call.
Even in the weary half-delirious hours he never uttered a word that
could vex any one, all was an overflowing of gratitude, chiefly to GOD,
and then to all of us for every trifling little comfort we could
contrive for him, and if ever his agony wrung from him one word of
impatience, his grief for that was too touching.
One evening he was for awhile anxious and distressed in mind, but
presently he was able to cast all his care on the Friend Whom he had
learnt to trust implicitly, and slept calmly as a child. When he awoke,
the cloud had passed, and he said to me: “See how my little simple
prayer has gone up to the throne of the Great GOD, and HE has sent me an
answer. HE has sent me this peace for Christ’s sake.”
Again, on the last night he seemed somewhat troubled in mind, but when
Ida gently repeated a few verses of strong promise, he looked up
earnestly, saying, “LORD, I believe, help THOU mine unbelief.” Then she
and I sang some of the old Scotch paraphrases, “I’m not ashamed to own
my LORD,” to the old tune “Martyrdom,” and others, she singing second,
and after awhile he fell into a troubled sleep. Towards morning (24th
March 1866) one deeper breath ended the struggle, and the emancipated
spirit passed away.
We hung the opposite room with white, and there that beautiful soul-case
lay for three days, while the Highlanders came from many a distant glen
to have one last look at him who from his boyhood had captivated all
their hearts, and who now lay before them with all the beauty of his
earlier years, but refined and spiritualised. “He looked so grand when
he was dead.”
In the misty early morning of 28th March they assembled in the
courtyard, and carried down the coffin, on which lay his plaid, bonnet,
broadsword, and the Bible and Prayer-book which his father and mother
had given him many years before when he first left Altyre to join the
Madras cavalry, and from which, through all his wanderings, he had never
parted. (His beautiful goat stood by—a magnificent white one with
splendid horns—which followed him about like a dog, and which throughout
his illness constantly waited under his window, listening to his voice,
and sometimes climbing upstairs to his door. It seemed to recognise our
right to its allegiance, for, though dangerous to most people, it was
always very obedient to us.)
After prayer by the parish minister, the Highlanders carried the coffin
to the pier, where lay a steamer which we had chartered, and whose
captain had hoisted the Union Jack at half-mast. As we slowly marched
down, the piper played “M‘Crimmon’s Lament,” the wildest of all the
Gaelic wails, and its echoes mingled with the wild cries of the seapiats
(_i.e._ peewits) or oyster-catchers, which were breeding in all the
little creeks about the loch. Presently the sun broke through the mist,
and bits of rainbow—bow of promise—irradiated the snowy mountain
summits.
We left the steamer at Drumnadrochit, travelling thence by carriage to
Inverness, and by rail to Elgin, whence we drove to Duffus, there to be
welcomed and cared for by our cousins, the Dunbars, while in the old
hall at Gordonstoun the coffin rested till Easter Eve, 31st March,
whence many who loved him dearly followed it along the quiet green
glades to the old Michael Kirk, where we laid him beside his father and
mother. On the coffin lay one lovely cross of white flowers, in the
centre of which, wrapped up in soft green moss, Ida had placed some
sea-shells from the Covesea sands, to which he had so craved to return.
Henceforth his dust would lie within sound of the waves which he loved,
but might not see again.
On the following morning—Easter Day—we all went together to church in
Elgin, and more real than ever seemed the glorious greetings of the
Morning of the Resurrection.
One who would fain have been with us—our eldest brother, Sir Alexander
Penrose—was prevented from coming by illness, which for some months had
been gradually intensifying its grip of him. All through the previous
autumn, while struggling to be, as was his wont, the life of the many
balls[48] and other gay doings at Floors Castle, Kelso, etc., in honour
of the young Prince and Princess of Wales, he had frequently been
enduring grievous pain.
But he battled bravely on, till in the month of February it became
evident that he must have further medical advice, and so, telling his
specially loved little son Walter that he hoped to return to him in a
week, he took what proved to be his last look at his beloved Altyre, and
journeyed to the Cumming-Bruces’ southern home at Kinnaird, near
Larbert, whence he could conveniently go to Edinburgh and back in a day.
Soon, however, it became evident that much closer medical attendance was
necessary, and he moved first to rooms in Forres Street, and then to 11
Albyn Place, which was destined to become to us all hallowed ground
indeed.
All through the weary summer months the slow “purification by fire” went
on—days and nights of such agony as mercifully few human beings are
called to endure—hardly a moment’s respite from pain in some form,
except when the momentary sharp pain of the morphia needle soothed and
enabled him to sleep for some hours. Always hungry, yet hardly daring to
touch necessary food, for the certainty of torture, as well as desperate
sickness, so soon as it was swallowed. The only relief he experienced
was when by turns we were almost incessantly rubbing or kneading the
seat of pain, when it would shift to some new place.
His illness sorely perplexed the medical faculty, who attributed it to
the presence of sarcinae, a fungoid or zoophyte growth on the coats of
the stomach, combined with the gravest form of liver-complaint.
Dr. Christison, whom he consulted in the first instance, had treated the
case so lightly, that the patient placed himself in the care of Dr.
Simpson, who at once corroborated the above, which was the view taken by
Dr. Murray, our local doctor at Forres. Dr. Simpson was himself at that
time in such precarious health, that the charge of his patients devolved
almost entirely on Dr. Black, who, on my brother’s very bad days,
sometimes looked in seven or eight times, and soon the strongest
brotherly friendship grew up between him and the sufferer. Often in the
moments of worst torture, when our words seemed powerless to help him,
some little whisper from that grave gentle friend would soothe and
strengthen him.
At first only Annie, his wife, had accompanied him south, but when his
young only daughter, Eisa,[49] realised that her father was seriously
ill, she followed without waiting for permission, accompanied by little
Walter and his governess. The child, who had been his chief idol, seemed
more than he could bear, so he was sent back to Gordonstoun, and the two
elder boys, who were at school, remained there till the holidays; but
from that moment his daughter was his chief comfort, and my sister Ida
and I helped her in tending him. (Our ever kind cousin, Lady Emma
Campbell, made her house my home all through these long months.)
Now once again we were to have the wonderful privilege of, as it were,
standing by to see GOD fight HIS own wonderful battle, and rescue HIS
wanderer. Once again we watched how, as the outward man decayed, the
inward man was renewed—not suddenly, as with Roualeyn, when it seemed as
if a spark had touched an already well-laid fire. He knew everything
concerning the Christian faith, though he had never made it a rule of
action. Penrose told us that he knew nothing—hardly the simplest words
of Scripture or of prayer, and that although a fairly regular attendant
at what he called “church parade,” he had never thought of what was
said, or that the words spoken had any reality whatever—certainly not as
concerning himself. He said he believed that the vast majority of men of
his own standing thought as little. “But,” he said, almost in Roualeyn’s
own words, “when GOD lays HIS hand on a man, as HE has done on me, he
MUST think.”
Now, when the inner teaching began, and he felt that he had missed the
true aim of life, and was tossing about rudderless, and would fain find
a pilot, he was hardly able to grasp any consecutive thought. His
spiritual perceptions were as much enfeebled by long neglect as his body
was by illness, so he (the once brilliant _raconteur_ of witty stories,
and ever the readiest at repartee) could only take a few words at a time
and repeat them over and over again, and even then it was very slowly
that their intense reality came home to him.
First, silently in his own heart the conviction dawned upon him that he,
too, although a first-class landlord, county gentleman, and leader in
society, had nevertheless, as concerning the great realities of life,
wasted his talents as recklessly as Roualeyn, whom he had so justly
blamed. And so, when I first came to him, he eagerly caught at every
word I could tell him, of all the glad assurances we had in his death.
“Now,” he said, “you must tell me all about it, just as if you were
speaking to a child.” And so, childlike, carefully, and with great
difficulty he tried to grasp one thought at a time—a verse of a psalm,
which he could make his prayer again and again, or a promise—chiefly,
“Fear not. I have redeemed thee. I have called thee by thy name. Thou
art MINE,” which he called “our verse,” and repeated hundreds of times,
whenever a shade of doubt or trouble crossed his mind.
He liked Eisa or me to read and pray with him every morning and evening,
and when, with the instinct of the old soldier, he had heard the
newspaper accounts of the Prusso-Austrian war, he liked one of us to
read some very simply-told story, such as “_Jessica’s First
Prayer_.”[50] In the evening he liked several of his most intimate
friends to gather round the piano in the next room, and sing simple
hymns, such as “Tell me the old, old story,” Keble’s evening hymn, and
various others, which soothed him as he fell asleep under the brief
respite from pain secured by the morphia needle.
As the months wore on, I was sent with his daughter and eldest son to
the Malcolms of Poltalloch, in Argyllshire, for a much-needed change of
air, but we were soon summoned back by telegraph, in consequence of an
attack so agonising that it seemed as if it must be the last. As I
slipped into his room, he turned to me, and with great difficulty, but
with a look of blessed peace and trust, he whispered “our verse”: “Fear
not. I have redeemed thee. Thou art MINE.” He had evidently been waiting
eagerly for our return, and longing to tell us by those words how our
hearts’ desire had been granted.
He rallied again, and lived for some days longer, speaking strong,
loving words of counsel to both his elder sons, bidding them love GOD
and one another. As his strength allowed, he bade a loving farewell to
each of those who had been about him. Just as Roualeyn took Tom Moffat’s
head in his hands and kissed him, so Penrose took Peter Dustan, his
devoted manservant, and kissing him tenderly, bade him be as faithful to
his GOD as he had always been to him.
Then he seemed to have done with earth, and we heard him praying to be
taken “to that Home which THOU hast prepared for sinners such as I, but
who DO believe on JESUS CHRIST, as I DO believe on HIM.” But sometimes
he would check his prayer, and say that “perhaps God was not ready for
him, and he must be patient and wait. Or that perhaps there might be
need for his suffering longer, and if so, he was content to bear
whatever GOD laid upon him.” And patiently he did bear all his sore
trial—never one word of murmuring did we hear from him, formerly so
irritable and exacting, but through all those weary months so gentle and
considerate for every one, and so grateful for the tiniest cares.
Two nights before he died he bade us sing as usual, but that night we
tried in vain. Then he said, “Oh, if I could hear the pipes once more!”
Suddenly, and for the first time in all the months since we came to
Edinburgh, two young volunteer pipers struck up just as they marched
past his window. My sister Ida darted out, and told them that a Highland
chief was lying there very ill, and longed to hear the dear old pipes.
She asked if they could halt awhile and play to him, which they gladly
did, playing for half an hour in the dark under his open window. He
said, “THAT IS MUSIC!” and then sank back exhausted, but so pleased.
Sir Noel Paton wrote some very pretty verses about that incident, but he
thought it had occurred on the last night of all, whereas Penrose lived
on till Sunday morning, 2nd September, “the morning of the
Resurrection,” as he himself said. He was conscious to the very last,
though suffering from frightful cramp; and when Ida closed his dear eyes
I think the one feeling amongst us all was of intense thankfulness for
having been permitted to witness so sure and certain a victory after so
long and hardly-fought a battle. “Thanks be unto GOD for HIS unspeakable
gift.”
Peace, perfect peace, was the irresistible thought, as we looked on the
calmly beautiful face, like exquisitely chiselled marble, with the old
look of unrest gone for ever, and replaced, even in death, by the new
expression of quiet trust. Round him lay fair white flowers and sprays
of willow and ivy, his clan-badges.
Dear Sir Noel came to take a last look, and made a pencil outline of the
face which he had first seen in fancy. For, strange to say, the
beginning of our friendship arose from Sir Noel painting his well-known
picture of “The Wounded Soldier’s Return to his Home,” in which the
soldier bore so striking a likeness to Penrose, that Sir Noel was
repeatedly asked when he had secured sittings, whereas he had never seen
him.
A few days later we all travelled north, and for the second time within
seven months one of our bonnie brothers rested in the old hall at
Gordonstoun preparatory to the last brief journey. On his coffin were
laid his blue bonnet and plaid, volunteer shako, sword, Bible, and one
lovely cross of white lilies. It was a day of glorious sunshine (11th
September) when he was carried through the green avenues to the old
Michael Kirk, our uncle’s piper, John Macdonald, playing wild laments
alternately with the volunteer band, which played “The Flowers of the
Forest” and the “Dead March in Saul.” He had always wished that the
latter might be played when he was buried, but, as he had left the
regular army,[51] he thought it could not be.
[Illustration:
_C. F. Gordon Cumming._
THE OLD MICHAEL KIRK. 1866.
]
There was a very great gathering of friends (there were fully a thousand
people in the park), and the Primus, Bishop Eden, who with many others
had come all the way from Inverness, read the service most impressively.
I think, as we walked home through the sunshine, with cloudless blue sky
overhead and harvest-fields all around us, we thought thankfully of our
grain so safely garnered in God’s own storehouse.
Among the friends who gathered round us from long distances were dear
old Mr. Grant of Glen Morriston and his son John. We trembled for the
effect on that truly grand old man, little thinking that within a year
he would have to lay his own young roof-tree in the quiet old
burial-ground beside Loch Ness. Few indeed of all that kindly company
now survive.
THE CHIEFTAIN’S CORONACH.
“Far from his fir-clad hills and moorlands brown,
Far from the rushing thunder of the Spey,
Amid the din and turmoil of the town
A Highland Chieftain on his death-bed lay;
Dying in pride of manhood, ere to grey
One lock had turned, or from his eagle face
And stag-like form, Time’s touch of slow decay
Had reft the strength and beauty of his race.
And as the feverish night drew sadly on,
‘Music!’ they heard him breathe in low, beseeching tone.
“From where beside his couch she, weeping, leant,
Uprose the fair-haired daughter of his love,
And touched with gentle hand the instrument,
Singing with tremulous voice that vainly strove
To still its faltering, songs that wont to move
His heart to joy in many a dear home hour;
But not to-night thy strains, sweet sorrowing dove,
To fill the hungering of his heart have power!
And hark! he calls aloud with kindling eye,
Ah! might I hear a pibroch once before I die?
“Was it the gathering silence of the grave
Lent ghostly prescience to his yearning ear?
Was it the pitying GOD WHO heard and gave
Swift answer to his heart’s wild cry? For clear,
Though far, but swelling nearer and more near,
Sounded the mighty war-pipe of the Gael
Upon the night-wind! In his eye a tear
Of sadness gleamed, but flushed his visage pale
With the old martial rapture. On his bed
They raised him. When it passed—the Highland Chief was dead!
“Yet, ere it passed, ah! doubt not he was borne
Away in spirit to the ancestral home
Beyond the Grampians, where, in life’s fresh morn,
He scaled the crag and stemmed the torrent’s foam;
Where the lone corrie he was wont to roam,
A light-foot hunter of the deer! But where,
Alas! to-day, beneath the cloudless dome
Of this blue autumn heaven, the clansmen bear
Him, with the coronach’s piercing knell
To sleep amid the wilds he loved in life so well.”
J. NOEL PATON.
CHAPTER X.
Marriages of my Sister Emilia and my Brother William—We leave Speyside
and settle in Perthshire—My Visits to Skye and India.
On 1st January 1867 the family assembled at Cantray, a few miles from
Nairn, for the marriage of my youngest half-sister, Emilia, aged
eighteen, to Warden Sergison of the 4th Hussars, and of Cuckfield Park,
in Sussex. As the whole country lay deep in snow, it was deemed wisest
to have the service in the drawing-room, Bishop Eden[52] officiating.
Notwithstanding the snow, people assembled from far and near, and it was
a very pretty wedding.
One such ceremony is said often to lead to another, and so it proved in
this case, for among the guests was a handsome girl, who proved as good
as she was bonnie—Alexa Angelica Harvey Brand. To her my brother William
promptly lost his heart, as well he might, and in the early summer they
were married from her home near London. Angelica by name, she proved a
true angel in her husband’s family, and the home which they made for
themselves at Auchintoul, in Banffshire, was for twenty years the
gathering-point where we could all meet, ever sure of a loving welcome.
Early in this year occurred an unhappy incident in our family annals.
One of George Grant’s brother officers in the 42nd, on leaving the army,
had started on the Stock Exchange, on which, as in other matters, a
little knowledge has so often proved dangerous indeed. With the kindest
intentions he initiated some of his late comrades into the mysteries of
many “good things”—a most literal case of the blind leading the blind,
with the usual sad results.
Dear George, ever the blithest and most sanguine of human beings, soon
found himself beyond his depth, and hoping against hope, was led on to
new ventures, till forced to realise that, instead of doubling his
capital, he had lost all, and must give up the sweet home on Speyside,
on which he and my sister had expended so much loving care.
So on a very sad day in May we all bade farewell to that lovely spot and
came south to Perthshire, halting for a week at Farleyer, where, as
usual, we were one and all received with the heartiest and tenderest
welcome by Sir Robert Menzies and his lovely and most lovable wife.
It was they who had suggested the then almost unknown and quite ideal
village of Comrie as a desirable spot to establish a new home on a tiny
scale. So a beautiful drive through the mountains from Aberfeldy to
Comrie brought us to “Rosebank,” into which it took some skill to pack
the five children, their ever-faithful nurse, Catherine Bruce, and her
good old Highland mother, and yet to contrive a room to be my
headquarters. There George and Nell bravely “buckled to,” and themselves
carried on all the drudgery of regular lessons, and well they both stuck
to this uncongenial work.
Their difficulties were greatly lightened by the exceeding kindness of
all their neighbours, Sir David and Lady Lucy Dundas, at beautiful
Duneira, the Williamsons of Lawers, the Graham-Stirlings of Strowan, the
Dewhursts at Abruchill, Sir Patrick Keith-Murray of Ochtertyre, and, in
short, every one within hail.
That little nest in such beautiful surroundings was my sister’s home for
two years, when it became possible to move to a somewhat roomier villa
in Crieff, which, with the excellent talent for adaptation to
circumstances which characterises most of our race, she transformed into
a pretty and very happy little home, in which her five children grew up,
well loved by all their neighbours, rich and poor. Here the social
circle was enlarged by many kind and pleasant friends further down the
Strath, Lady Anne Drummond Moray at Abercairny, fine old Lady Willoughby
D’Eresby at beautiful Drummond Castle, the Spiers of Culdees, Murrays of
Dotherie, Thompsons of Balgowan, Maxtone-Grahams of Cultoquhey, and
others.
But the consciousness that his imprudence had wrought so much trouble
weighed heavily on George’s naturally buoyant spirits, and undermined
his health, and in May 1873 he very suddenly passed away. My sister
continued bravely to fight life’s battle till, in April 1889, she too
passed from earth to dwell for ever with the Friend on whose loving
guidance and wise over-ruling of all seeming evil she so implicitly
relied. Now all that was mortal of that faithful pair rests beneath a
tall Celtic Cross of grey granite in the peaceful “God’s-acre” at
Ochtertyre, within Sir Patrick Keith Murray’s beautiful park, and by him
presented for the use of the episcopal congregation of Crieff.
Their eldest daughter, Alice, was already engaged to Lord Walter Gordon
Lennox, and ere long the second, Muriel, married Geoffrey St. Quintin,
younger of Scampston, in Yorkshire, while their three brothers settled
in London. Of these, William Ogilvie-Grant found most congenial
occupation in charge of the admirable bird department in the Museum of
Natural History in South Kensington, and has contributed many valuable
papers to the publications of that Society.
To return to 1867, soon after we had settled at Comrie, I went to London
for my brother Bill’s marriage to Alexa Brand; thence to old friends at
York, where the 4th Hussars were then quartered, and my half-sister
Janie and her brother Fred were staying with our young couple, the
Sergisons. Then a week at beautiful Chillingham Castle, and two months
at Cresswell, after which, back to Comrie, where the surroundings
offered so many fascinating subjects for sketching.
In the spring of 1868, I paid a long visit to Lady Emma Campbell in
Edinburgh, and then to Lady Lucy Dundas at Beechwood, where my
half-brother Fred joined me, and we started together to spend his Easter
vacation in the Mull of Cantyre beside the grand waves of Machrihanish
Bay, which lies just below Losset, the pleasant home of our cousins, the
Macneals of Ugadale.
After three delightful weeks there, we started to spend ten days in the
Isle of Skye with the Frasers of Kilmuir. There Fred very nearly ended
his career, for as I was quietly sitting sketching the Falls of the Rah,
and he scrambling about the rocks overhead, he missed his footing, and I
saw him flash past me and disappear into a dark pool. Mercifully the
little river was so full that he did not strike his head on the rocks,
and managed to scramble out with only a bruised knee, which did not
hinder his return to London, though he was lame for six weeks. He lived
to do good work in the army, and died a soldier’s death in the Burmese
war.[53]
As for me, I willingly yielded to most hospitable invitations to linger
amid such delightful sketching-ground, and to accompany my hosts on
fascinating cruises round Skye and further isles in their little yacht,
afterwards finding sketching-quarters for myself in a farm at the foot
of the wonderful Quirang rocks, and then at Sligachan, right under the
shadow of the grand Cuchullin mountains, watching the earliest rosy dawn
and the last gleam of moonlight on those wonderful peaks.
From Sligachan I made fully half-a-dozen expeditions to sketch dark Loch
Coruisk and the green sea-loch Scavaig, each expedition involving fully
twelve hours of hard toil, always accompanied by Alfred Hunt, the
artist—most delicate interpreter of mountains and mists, and a
thoroughly congenial spirit.
Thus month after month slipped by all too quickly, till October found me
once again at Glen Morriston, and then at Inchnacardoch, both on Loch
Ness. While there, a letter reached me from Mrs. Sergison, _i.e._ my
young half-sister, who (a mother ere she was nineteen) had accompanied
her husband and his regiment to India. Now, having succeeded to the
family estates, Warden proposed leaving the army, but first having a
year in India to see something of the country and of the Himalayas.
They wrote to propose that I should join them for this delightful year,
and that an English nurse, whom they had engaged to come out immediately
and take care of little Charlie, should act as my lady’s-maid on the
voyage.
On first reading a proposal so startling, it seemed simply ridiculous.
For in those days such travel was still very expensive, and no one
dreamt of going to India unless they were obliged to do so. In fact, in
whatever part of India I found myself, I was invariably told that I was
the very first lady who had gone out except as wife or sister of some
official, more or less under compulsion. So that I really have been the
pioneer of the multitude of women who now run to and fro throughout the
earth! I am glad I had first innings!
So my first impulse was to decline. Had I done so, the twelve years of
enchanting travel which followed would never have been dreamt of, for
link by link that pleasant chain wove itself—as the old saying is, “_Qui
à voyagé voyagera!_” Happily I had a few hours of quiet sketching beside
Loch Ness before post-time, and new lights gleamed on the subject, so
when I went back to the house it was to write to secure my passage, and
to inquire about the best paints, paper, and waterproof clothing for the
tropics—all of which, and perhaps especially the latter, proved precious
companions.
Then, bidding adieu to all the kind friends on Loch Ness, I started on a
rapid succession of visits, first to my brother Bill and his bride at
Rose Valley, their temporary home near Cantray. Then to my brother Henry
and Bessie in their dainty little nest at Pittyvaich, in the heart of
sweet birch-woods and mountain glens and murmuring waters. Thence to
Gordonstoun, and up to Dunphail to the dear old Cumming-Bruces, who,
instead of thinking me mad, like all the others, highly approved of my
Indian ploy.
Then I touched Comrie, and on to Edinburgh to my cousins Helen and
Elizabeth Forbes of Medwyn. The next day was Sunday, and the Archbishop
of York (Thompson) preached, illustrating his subject by many references
to the mountains, _e.g._—speaking of the indelible marks for eternity
left by each day’s life, he spoke of the ineffaceable lines left in past
ages by the glaciers slowly, imperceptibly gliding onward, ever onward,
over the rocks; exactly what I had been daily studying at Coruisk among
the great boulders and _blocs perchés_, lying just where they were
carried by glaciers in prehistoric ages.
Finally, one last move brought me to Jane, Lady Gordon-Cumming in
London, for all the numerous last bits of shopping. At every one of
these points, and at innumerable intermediate halting-places, I was met
by shoals of kind friends and kinsfolk coming to give me a parting
cheer—and some brought gifts, such as a whole case of eau de Cologne for
use on the voyage! As my eye glances over these pages of my diary, I
simply marvel that I could ever have possessed so many friends, and now
certainly not more than half a dozen survive—at any rate not of those
who were then grown up.
“O! tempo passato!”
[Illustration:
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY W. CROOKE, 103 PRINCES S^T. EDINBURGH.
]
On 14th November 1868, I embarked at Southampton on board the P. and O.
ss. the _Pera_, reaching Gibraltar on the 19th, and Malta on the 23rd.
It was my very first voyage, with the exception of three days’ trips on
British coasting-steamers and yachting in the Hebrides, so that the
sudden change from the cold, grey November mists of Southampton to the
wonderful sunshine and blue sky of the Mediterranean was a new
revelation.
At Malta the governor’s barge was waiting to take me to the palace of
the old knights of St. John, where Sir Patrick and Lady Grant and the
family welcomed me to what seemed fairyland. The curious narrow streets,
with their picturesque balconies, the tropical flowers, the people, the
shrines, colours, lights and shadows, were all fascinating, and the
palace itself magnificent.
On my return, I halted here for a delightful month as Lady Grant’s
guest, but on this occasion my visit was limited to one day, from our
arrival at sunrise, to re-embarking in the brilliant moonlight after a
visit to the opera—a lovely house where the governor has a box as a
matter of course—and we refreshed our ears by the music of _The
Huguenots_. Reading over that day’s diary fills me with amazement that
it should have been possible to crowd so much sight-seeing and so many
new impressions into so brief a period.
The next great excitement was reaching Alexandria and bidding farewell
to all the friends connected with the _Pera_. (Happily many very
congenial passengers continued the voyage to Calcutta.) Then followed
all the interests of first landing in Egypt and mingling in the
wondrously mixed crowds of all nationalities and varieties of costume.
For then there was no Suez Canal. All travellers still crossed the
desert, and Alexandria had not been bombarded.
We saw the orthodox sights, with a few extra ones not according to
programme, as a delay in the arrival of the steamer from Marseilles gave
us an extra day ere we were all to cross the desert by railway.
This we did on Advent Sunday. Of course everything we saw was new and
fascinating. The tall Arabs, riders on mules and asses, men in flowing
garments carrying long green sugar-canes, camels and asses “unequally
yoked” to the plough, sedgy ground, where tall reeds waved their grand
white feathery heads in the breeze. We reached Suez about 9 P.M., and by
midnight were safely on board the P. and O. ss. _Candia_.
Our voyage down the Red Sea was perfect, even “the barren rocks of Aden”
were transfigured by the glory of sunset, which flushed the summits
crimson, while the town and tanks and sea-board were wrapped in imperial
purple.
And then came Ceylon and the never-to-be-forgotten sensation of a first
glimpse of real tropics, and the wealth of luxuriant large-leaved
foliage and cocoa-palms. In those days there was no artificial harbour
at Colombo, so Point de Galle was the point of call, and large steamers
anchored at some distance from land, and the passengers rowed ashore in
native boats. All these delights became very familiar to me, when not
very long afterwards I returned to live my _Two Happy Years in Ceylon_.
We reached Calcutta on the 23rd December, and very kind friends of my
Indian brothers came on board to welcome me and take me to the luxurious
palace of Messrs. Gillanders, Arbuthnot and Co., then represented by Mr.
Ogilvie of Corriemonie. There I spent a most interesting Christmas, and
soon afterwards started up-country, halting at many points of interest
on the way.
The first break on the long railway journey was to visit the Hankeys at
Berhampore. To do so we had to cross the river Bhagarittee by boat in
the clear moonlight, with picturesque groups of natives crouching round
their fires on the river-bank. Then a thirteen miles’ drive through one
continuous town—Moorshedabad and its suburbs—old temples half-hidden by
rank vegetation, many elephants quietly feeding under great trees, and
everything looking weird in the misty moonlight.
On New Year’s Eve, Mr. Hankey having been invited by the Nawaub of
Moorshedabad to bring his friends to a great “pig-sticking” meet in the
jungle, we all drove about twenty-four miles to Dewan Serai, where,
under a group of very fine old trees, the camp of large, luxurious tents
was pitched. A very nice one was assigned to me and my maid, Alice Wass,
who immensely enjoyed the novelty of everything, and who proved herself
a capital acquisition all the time we were in India.
Anything so picturesque as that jungle-camp had never entered my dreams.
The multitude of camp-followers, chiefly robed in white, with large
turbans, their quaint _ekkas_ and other carts, the many horses and
bullocks, fourteen elephants, and a few camels and other animals, all
grouped in the strong light and shadow from the blue moonlight or the
red camp-fires, and the numerous small tents, all combined to make up a
picture which lives in memory, but defies any painter’s art. We sat in
the door of our tent and watched the close of 1868.
Of 1869 I must not now speak. From its dawn till its close it was one
long delight—every day brought strange novelties, and found me in some
new scene of beauty and interest.
Always with pleasant companions—old residents who had made India the
home of a lifetime, and were thoroughly interested in all that concerned
the country and its very varied inhabitants—I was taken from city to
city, always with leisure for painting some of the most striking scenes.
Of these I invariably made minutely accurate pencil-drawings ere
allowing myself to touch colour, and as I worked very rapidly, and
frequently started for my sketching-ground by 4 A.M. (never later than
“gun-fire,” _i.e._ 5 A.M.), I secured upwards of a hundred very
interesting large pictures.
I always found it best, in addition to small sketch-books and averagely
large blocks, to carry one very large zinc block, which, however tired I
might be, I covered anew every night, often under great difficulties. It
travelled in a flat tin box, in which also lay all the pictures painted
on it. The advantage of this great block was that when I found some vast
subject I had not to waste time planning how much could be compressed
into a small space, but could set to work at once with a fairly free
hand.
After a happy time at Allahabad with Major and Mrs. Hanmer, they had
arranged to take a holiday in order to escort me to Cawnpore, Lucknow,
Delhi, Agra, Futteyporesickri, and other places of exceeding interest,
with all of which my hosts were thoroughly familiar.
Then my sister and Warden Sergison joined us, and I returned with them
to Meerut, where the 4th Hussars were quartered. Very soon they and all
available troops were ordered to Umballa, at the foot of the Himalayas,
to take part in a grand durbar in honour of Sheer Ali Khan, the Ameer of
Afghanistan, who for the first time in history had consented to come to
meet the Viceroy (Lord Mayo). So it was a very important, as well as a
very remarkable scene. Nowadays the public have been sated with accounts
of durbars, but it was not so thirty years ago.
From Umballa we proceeded to Simla, where my sister had a delightful
bungalow, commanding a vast view of the snowy range. There I left her
with a new baby, while I travelled further into the Himalayas with
Colonel and Mrs. Graves, who were bent on sport and sight-seeing, so
that more perfect sketching companions could not have been found. We
followed the course of the Sutledge, sometimes at a great height,
sometimes ONLY 10,000 feet above the sea, while looking up at peaks of
from 22,000 to 24,000 feet.
The length of our daily marches was generally dependent on where we
could find a morsel of level ground sufficiently large to allow of our
pitching our tiny hill-tents, each about six feet square. Sometimes
these our temporary homes were on steep hillsides, looking right up to
the snowy peaks, and sometimes the narrow path led for miles along the
face of stupendous precipices, where one slip would have landed us in
the raging Sutledge, thousands of feet below.
But sometimes we came to delightful forests of ancient _diodara_, which
in maturity resemble cedars of Lebanon, and here in some green glade we
could camp beside still waters, and rest in happy peace for some days.
The weather on our upward journey was ideal, and we might have had the
same for weeks, had not a cruel colonel refused my companions any
extension of leave, so that we were compelled to return, and meet the
wet monsoon—those “rains” which are rain indeed. And now I was truly
thankful for the happy thought which had led me to secure the best of
waterproofs for myself and my sketching-materials, thanks to which I was
able to secure pictures of misty forests, even in the midst of the
rains.
After an interval of rest at Simla, I again left my sister, and stayed
with the David Frasers of Saltoun at Massourie and Landour, in another
part of the Himalayas. As at Simla in April and May, the hillsides were
glorified by scarlet rhododendrons, and so at Massourie in October the
feast of colour was supplied by acres of wild single dahlias of every
variety of gorgeous tint—purple, scarlet, and yellow mingling with grey
rocks, and seeming to reach up to the cloudless blue sky.
After Massourie came Dehra Doon, a lovely plateau among the foothills of
the great range, where noble clusters of gigantic bamboo flourish to
perfection, and thence I had a delightful expedition to Hardwar, the
holiest city of the Hindoos, being nearest to the source of the Ganges.
There the river, newly flowing from its cradle among the glaciers, is of
the loveliest aqua marine, and clear as crystal, very different from the
foul yellow stream which we found a week later at Benares, the next
holiest city, being nearest the mouth of the Ganges. Of course, both
cities are alike wholly given to idolatry, but at Hardwar it is in a
cleaner form, whereas at Benares it is overpowering, and the noise of
the innumerable temples is bewildering. Major Hanmer most kindly came
from Allahabad on purpose to escort me to Benares, where the Sergisons
joined us, and the Rajah loaded us with kindness. Having been thoroughly
lionised, we returned to the Hanmers at Allahabad, where the children
were safely housed, and thence started for Jubbulpore and the far-famed
“marble rocks” on the Nerbudda, a lovely, clear green river.
Then by the wonderful newly-constructed railway, winding through
beautiful mountain scenery, till we reached Bombay, and thence sailed
for England.
We halted awhile in Egypt to explore the immediate surroundings of
Cairo, and on 1st January 1870 we embarked at Alexandria.
On reaching Malta I forsook the Sergisons and stayed for a delightful
month with Sir Patrick and Lady Grant in the marvellous old palace of
the knights of St. John—a month which included an amazing amount of
social amusements, civil, military, and naval, one brilliant ball at the
palace, and sundry smaller dances. The Governor’s delightful box at the
opera was always available every night that we could slip in for an hour
or so after dinner, and the orange-gardens and cool marble courts, with
masses of flowers, were constant delights.
Among the pleasantest of many pleasant excursions were the weekly “naval
picnics” to various parts of the isle, and among our chief naval friends
was Captain, afterwards Admiral, Lethbridge, the very ideal of all that
a British sailor should be. He was at that time commanding H.M.S.
_Simoon_, which was doing duty as a troopship, and was about to sail for
England with troops of various regiments, chiefly engineers, with wives
and families.
The married officers included some of our special friends, so when
Captain Lethbridge offered me a passage to Portsmouth I gladly accepted,
and enjoyed the new experience immensely.
At Gibraltar we were detained long enough to allow us thoroughly to
explore the mighty Rock and all the mysteries of the wonderful tunnelled
galleries excavated in the solid rock and mounted with hidden cannon to
rake any invader. The whole Rock from base to summit is lined with most
formidable batteries, which are all casemated—truly a marvel of
engineering skill. We climbed to the very highest point, and thence
looked down on the Spanish coast and the towns of San Roque and
Algeciras, and on the vividly blue sea.
Very different was the grey stormy sea and sky, with sweeping
snow-drifts, which chilled us as we neared the Irish coast, and at
Queenstown, on 11th February, I set foot on Erin’s Isle for the first
time. We started again that night, but the storm intensified to such a
pitch that we returned to anchor for awhile. Again we steamed off on the
strength of a lull, but the weather grew fouler, grand green waves
occasionally washing clean over us, and eight men at the helm. On the
second day, having seen no sun since leaving Ireland, and consequently
taken no observations, we had to stand out to sea, but at night made the
Land’s End, and anchored under lee of the land. Next day we made our way
to Penzance, where about five hundred other vessels were weather-bound.
Not till the sixth day did we reach Portsmouth harbour, and very grey
and uninviting our England appeared.
_N.B._—After a spell in the tropics in sunshine and colour, avoid
returning to our British Isles in February, or any other bleak wintry
month! Of course the warm welcome of many loving kinsfolk is a
compensation, but it is very difficult to keep up the illusion that one
is really glad to be back.
My well-filled portfolios proved interesting to a multitude of friends
and friends’ friends, who all said they had never before been able so
thoroughly to realise Indian scenery. It was less entertaining to the
artist, who sometimes had to “do portfolio” four times in one day!
Presently, as I settled down to think over all I had seen in the last
three years, I was so much impressed by various points of strange
resemblance between old Celtic customs and similar customs in the Far
East that I wrote a very elaborate two-volume book, which I called _From
the Hebrides to the Himalayas_.
It was published by Messrs. Sampson Low, Marston and Co., and was very
kindly received by the reviewers and the public; but I felt myself that
it was too ponderous, so I eventually recast it, omitting a good deal of
somewhat irrelevant matter, and Messrs. Chatto and Windus produced it as
two independent volumes—_In the Hebrides_, and _In the Himalayas and on
Indian Plains_. On the grey binding of the former is stamped a spray of
brown Hebridean sea-weed, and on the latter a realistic Himalayan
cliff-road and snowy peak.
At a later period my glimpses of Egypt also found expression, combined
with an account of a semi-shipwrecked tour in Cornwall, of which I will
speak anon. These reminiscences were also published by Messrs. Chatto
and Windus under the title, _Viâ Cornwall to Egypt_.
CHAPTER XI
Return to England—Visit Cornwall _en route_ to Ceylon for Two Happy
Years.
February 1870.—In the next few months I paid a multitude of visits to
kinsfolk and friends in London and many counties—from Dover, Canterbury,
Rochester, and Cuckfield in the south, to Yorkshire, Northumberland,
Perthshire, and Banff in the north.
The most out-of-the-common thing that my diary records is that on
Sunday, 27th March, I went in the morning to Eaton Chapel, where the
Rev. Samuel Minton[54] preached very ably on the command, “That ye sin
not. But if any man sin, we have an Advocate.” In the afternoon I walked
to St. James’s, Piccadilly, to hear the celebrated Canon Liddon. The
church was densely crowded, and all sat riveted, while _for an hour and
forty minutes_ he spoke on “Desire, when it hath conceived, bringeth
forth Sin, and Sin ... bringeth forth Death.” It was highly
intellectual, and very deep; but so eloquent that no one seemed to feel
it long—not even I, whose capacity as a patient hearer, especially in
the afternoon, is so limited!
In May I went to Birdsall (which is about two hours by rail and road
from York, its post-town) to pay my first visit to Lord and Lady
Middleton, whose eldest son, Digby Willoughby, had married my niece,
Eisa Gordon-Cumming, while I was in India.[55] So that numerous brothers
and sisters and cousins and aunts formed a large company of warm-hearted
kinsfolk ready to welcome me also.
There for the first time I found myself in a real hunting family, the
father of which was Master of his own foxhounds, and, with one
exception, every son and daughter took to hunting as naturally as ducks
take to the water. And another novelty to me was the family devotion to
silky white fox-terriers, of which every one had his or her own
particular idol.
For my own part, I find my affections invariably incline to rough
animals in preference to smooth ones. I do admire beautiful collies (I
once loved one—_i.e._ a grand Himalayan sheep-dog which was given to me
as a puppy in Ramnee Forest, and which accompanied us home, and was the
children’s gentlest playfellow), and I like some Skye terriers, Shetland
ponies, young donkeys, picturesque, wide-horned Highland cattle, and
splendid cart horses, but I do not find myself touched by well-bred
cows, or an endless succession of faultlessly-groomed hunters in stalls,
and packs of glossy hounds, still less by trembling little smooth
terriers. What a confession! But Birdsall was and is a paradise for all
manner of pets—rough as well as smooth.
That autumn, I paid another delightful visit to the Middletons at
Applecross, their beautiful home and deer-forest in Ross-shire—beautiful
in itself and commanding a most lovely view of the great Skye hills,
from which it is only separated by a narrow strip of sea. It is,
however, wide enough often to prove a sea of separation which
occasionally prevents steamers from calling, so that guests who have for
hours been waiting to embark at 1 or 2 P.M., are forcibly detained. Many
come and go in their own yachts, the only access by land being a very
long drive over “the Balloch,” which is a tremendously steep ascent and
descent. Some rash guests recently resolved to come on their motor, and
after many hours, during which their arrival was anxiously awaited, they
arrived on foot exhausted, the motor having stuck half-way.
But once Applecross is reached, it is quite an ideal Highland home, with
an exquisite garden. Specially delightful to me was its luxuriant hedge
of _gloire de Dijon_ roses, for, in common with Lord Byron, I do love
all yellow and orange roses; which to pink ones seem to me to hold in
the flower-world the same relations as savouries do to sweets in regard
to food—most sweets and pink roses being to me alike comparatively
uninteresting.
I now found my brother William and his wife (Bill and Alexa) settled at
Auchintoul—the home which for the next twenty years was destined to
prove such a true family centre for us all.
But I do not purpose touching further on domestic matters, so will pass
on to the autumn of 1872, when an invitation from the “beloved parson”
of our dear old Altyre days—then Bishop of Colombo—to pay him and Mrs.
Jermyn a long visit in Ceylon, led to my going thither, and remaining
for two delightful years in that beautiful isle.
The start was unpropitious. We embarked on board the _Hindoo_, a very
large, quite new steamer, but one which could not face such terrible
weather as we encountered in the English Channel. We embarked at
Tilbury, and for a week we battled with the storm; then in trying to
make Plymouth harbour to take up other passengers, our steering-gear
gave way, and we lay all night off the Eddystone rocks, firing rockets,
burning blue fire and other signals of distress, which were fully
understood on shore, but the storm was so furious that it was impossible
to send us succour, and if any tug could have ventured out, what could
she have done to aid such an unwieldy giant?
She had sprung various leaks, and had four feet of water in her hold.
The lower fires in the engine-room were extinct, and had the water risen
seven inches higher, the upper fires must have been quenched, and we
must have foundered. As it was, the combined efforts of the
donkey-engine and of “all hands at the pump” kept us afloat till
morning, when the gale moderated, and it became possible to rig up some
sort of steering-gear and to turn the ship’s head and run into Plymouth
harbour.
Of course no one on board had dreamt of sleeping that night, as we all
knew that we might founder at any moment. The fine old captain (Kerr)
allowed me to sit on deck in a corner of the wheel-house, and I
certainly never spent a more interesting night. It was all far too
exciting to leave any room for fear.
After the storm came a great calm, and a clear blue sky. It seemed
incredible that we had spent a night in such imminent danger, and yet
landed on a peaceful Advent Sunday morning, 1st December, and went to
St. Andrew’s Church like all the other folk who had slept in their quiet
beds. How vividly I remember that fine old church, and the quaint
dresses of an ancient charity school.
Of course the _Hindoo_ could go no further. She cost her owners £10,000
ere she could recommence her sea-going life, which was brief. Strange to
say, eight years later (in the first week of March 1880), when I had
just embarked in New York harbour on board the ss. _Montana_, and was on
the point of sailing for England, the ss. _Alexandria_ came into port,
having on board the passengers of the _Hindoo_, whom she had rescued
just ere, on 22nd February, that ill-fated vessel foundered in
mid-ocean! She had encountered a furious gale, and for a week was
gradually sinking, funnel, cook-house, and all her ten boats swept away,
and three officers washed overboard, when she was sighted by the
_Alexandria_, which succeeded in saving her crew and passengers,
fifty-three in all. On reaching New York, the five passengers were at
once transferred to the _Montana_, which thus carried the FIRST and LAST
passengers of the _Hindoo_.
Which of us was Jonah I cannot venture to say, but after a most
prosperous voyage, when we were fully expecting to breakfast at
Liverpool, we were awakened by a crash, followed by the alarming cry of
“All hands on deck!” and quickly realised that in a dead calm, but dense
fog, we had run right on to the cliffs opposite Holyhead, and lay in a
most critical position with our bows high on the rocks.
Once more we fired signals of distress, which were distinctly heard at
Holyhead; but for some inexplicable reason no one came to our assistance
for many hours—not till a party of women and children had been rowed to
Holyhead in a boat so leaky as to be more dangerous than the ship they
had left. As I had all my precious portfolios on board, I had ventured
to crave the captain’s permission to stick to the ship, which he allowed
me to do at my own risk, and in the course of the afternoon I had the
satisfaction of seeing them and myself safely transferred to a seaworthy
tug, which took us to Liverpool.
To return to Plymouth and the _Hindoo_. Her owners soon perceived that
it would be necessary for them to charter two smaller vessels, and
divide our large body of passengers into an Indian and a Ceylon party.
Till these could be got ready, we were each allowed ten shillings and
sixpence a day, and were left to our own devices.
To me this was obviously the chance of a lifetime in which to visit
Cornwall, and especially my great-grandmother’s estate of Penrose, near
Helston, and the wonderful Loe-pool. Emily Sage, who shared my cabin on
the _Hindoo_, resolved to accompany me, and Reginald Wickham thought he
could not do better than escort us. And so our enforced detention led to
a most interesting fortnight in Cornwall, and another in Devonshire,
till on 30th December we embarked on board the _Othello_, and, after a
very pleasant voyage, reached Colombo on 5th February 1873.
Our various adventures had so thoroughly shaken us all together, that we
had become an exceedingly friendly party, and were henceforward known in
Ceylon as the “Hindoo-Othellos,” who invariably drew together, just like
boys from the same public school. That voyage resulted in at least three
weddings, including that of the young couple whom I chaperoned in
Cornwall, from whom, after a lapse of thirty-one years, I have just
received a joint Christmas letter, reminding me of those happy weeks,
and telling with gladness of their soldier and schoolboy sons.
The next two years were one prolonged delight, each day being crammed
with matters of interest, and the very varied scenery of mountains or
sea-coast, rivers and lakes, temples and palaces, marvellous ruins of
pre-Christian cities in the depths of the great forests, stupendous
artificial tanks, gorgeously coloured foliage, and most picturesque men,
women, and children, Singhalese and Tamil, peasants and great
chiefs—each and all offered subjects so tempting to an artist that the
mere question of what to draw first was positively bewildering.
Not content with such sights as could easily be reached by ordinary
routes, the bishop most kindly arranged that his daughter and I should
accompany him on some of his visits to places most difficult of access.
One such tour was done entirely by water, passing from one calm lagoon
to another by means of connecting rivers and canals, where every turn
was a new vision of beauty.
The bishop’s “luxurious” house-boat was simply an ordinary rice
cargo-boat, cleaned and hung with white calico—so small that most people
would never have dreamt of sharing it with two unnecessary companions;
but, as I have often proved, “WHERE THERE IS HEART-ROOM THERE IS
HEARTH-ROOM,” and in truth those two companions did most thoroughly
enjoy the expedition thus unselfishly made possible for them.
Another was a riding-trip through the great forests to visit some
Vedas—the wild aborigines, a few of whom were just beginning to be
slightly tamed and semi-Christian. Thus incidentally we camped among the
wonderful ruins of the city of Pollanarua, and of the great tanks which
in bygone ages irrigated vast tracts of country, now arid thorny jungle,
except where in recent years British engineers have restored some of
these ancient works.
Long, delightful visits to the Commander of the Forces and the Governor,
_i.e._ General and Mrs. Kenny, and Mr.[56] and Mrs. Gregory (the latter
at Government House, Kandy and Queen’s Cottage, Nuwara-Eliya), blended
gay society life with many beautiful expeditions. Alas! the most
interesting of all, which was a very carefully organised three weeks’
journey from Kandy to the pre-Christian city of Anaradhapura, in the
heart of the Isle, and back to Kandy, involving a good deal of riding,
proved too much for a delicate constitution, and Mrs. Gregory became
very ill from what proved to be an internal development of dysentery,
and a week after reaching her beautiful home in Kandy, she passed away
on 28th June 1873.
Such an event naturally cast a sad gloom over the Isle—she was so truly
sympathetic and considerate for every one. For myself I proved, as I
have often done before, how soothing are long days of solitary
sketching, alone with beautiful nature; and at that time I found
peculiarly lovely subjects among the huge bamboo clumps overhanging the
beautiful river Gangarowa, on whose banks I was the guest of the
proprietors, Mr. and Mrs. Horsford, most kind friends.
Then another long, restful visit to a very popular fellow-passenger, who
had come out with us to marry her own love, Tom Farr. Their sweet nest,
Oolanakanda, was perched very high on the majestic Allegalla Peak, at
the foot of a mighty crag, and overlooking a billowy sea of mountain
ranges. Few houses command so vast a view, far above the misty valleys,
and the wonderful stillness of the mountains brought a sense of peace.
From there we could see in the far distance the other great mountain of
Ceylon, known to us as “Adam’s Peak,” but to the Singhalese as the “Sri
Pada,” or Mount of the Holy Foot, because of an impression, six feet in
length, on the extreme summit of that lofty peak, which is reverenced by
millions of the human race as that of whatever saintly person they most
revere. The Buddhists believe it to have been the footprint of Buddha,
the Mohammedans of Adam, the Sivites of Siva, while the Roman Catholic
Christians suppose it to have been that of St. Thomas.
All these sects alike make pilgrimage to that sacred summit, truly
climbing “the steep ascent to heaven.” It is very steep, and a toilsome
expedition, and at that time I could only hear of two white women who
had ever attempted it, but as both had accomplished it, and one was Lady
Robinson (afterwards Lady Rosmead), I refused to be scared by accounts
of its difficulty, whereupon half a dozen stalwart planters undertook to
be my escort, and well we were rewarded.
We spent a perfectly clear moonlight night on that wondrous summit, and
had the rare good-fortune, both at sunset and sunrise, to see the
extraordinary perfectly triangular blue shadow falling from the base of
the mountain to the horizon, exactly as I subsequently saw a similar
triangle cast by Fujiyama, the equally sacred mountain of Japan. I think
there can be little doubt that to these simple nature-worshippers this
mysterious and unaccountable natural phenomenon must have been the
original cause which led them to venerate these lofty peaks.
Not that the shape of the mountain is in any way responsible for the
sharply defined, geometric form of the shadow. I am told that the same
thing is sometimes seen from Pike’s Peak in the United States, which has
a rounded summit; but whether the Indian tribes there reverenced either
the mountain or its shadow, no one seems to have inquired.
The size of the footprint is well in keeping with that of the so-called
“holy tooth,” reverenced by many millions of Buddhists as that of their
founder, but which is probably that of a crocodile, and fully two inches
in length. The original small tooth was burnt by the Portuguese
conquerors. So then it was revealed to a devout priest that if he looked
in a certain spot on the lake he would find it again in a lotus blossom.
He accordingly sought, and found this treasure, which is so jealously
guarded that it is only shown when the great temple at Kandy is in
special need of funds, and then devout pilgrims from afar crowd to
worship it. Fortunately for me, one of these rare exhibitions occurred
while I was at Kandy, and I passed among the worshippers so often that
at length I secured in the palm of my hand a perfectly accurate
representation of the revered ivory.
There is a very gorgeous annual “Perehera,” when the tooth is supposed
to be carried round the city on a splendidly caparisoned elephant,
escorted by many other elephants, and by all the Singhalese chiefs in
their strange costume; but that is altogether a fraud, as the tooth is
never really taken outside of its own secure part of the temple, and
only an empty shrine receives the homage of the multitudes.
But I must not suffer myself to wander off into memories of beautiful
Ceylon and of the many hospitable homes to which I was so heartily
welcomed in all parts of the isle. I brought away several hundred very
careful paintings of exceeding interest, which (together with many in
other British colonies) were borrowed and framed for exhibition by the
representatives of these colonies at the great Indian and colonial
exhibitions in London, Glasgow, and elsewhere.
All the most interesting details of my wanderings are recorded in _Two
Happy Years in Ceylon_, now published in a one-volume edition by Messrs.
Chatto and Windus, London. On its blue cover is depicted a Talipat
palm-tree in blossom, showing the stupendous crown of white feather-like
blossom, rising to a height of from twenty to twenty-five feet above the
tree, an effort which occurs but once, after the palm has lived about
forty years; it then produces an amazing weight of nuts, each the size
of a small apple, but useless, and dies of exhaustion. Its gigantic
leaves sometimes measure twenty-five feet from the base of the
leaf-stalk to the outer rim of the leaf.
I am glad to say that this book also was most cordially received by
critics and the public, as also by the many religious denominations, to
whose overlapping work I had occasion frequently to refer.
I returned to Britain in the end of July 1874, and (accompanied by
Ceylon portfolios) paid such a round of visits in England and Scotland,
and got through so much writing, sketching, and other work, as fairly
takes my breath away even to think of, now that I have reached the later
stage, physical and mental, as described by Longfellow:
“The young heart, hot and restless,
And the old, subdued and low.”
Perhaps the pleasantest of all these visits was one to Inveraray, where
Duchess Elizabeth still reigned in all her beauty and charm, surrounded
by a large number of her sons and daughters, and where Princess Louise
showed me many of her own excellent works of art. The Duke was always
keenly interested in any new ideas or illustrations of antiquities or
natural phenomena, and on this occasion my very careful drawings of the
pre-Christian “jungle” cities, and, above all, the triangular shadow of
the Sri Pada, gave him special pleasure.
This he requited by himself taking me for several of his favourite long
drives, which compelled me to confess that Ceylon itself could produce
nothing more exquisite than Inveraray’s cadmium and burnt
sienna-coloured beech-trees, fairy-like golden birches, and profusion of
scarlet rowan-berries, with a sea-loch as blue as the autumn sky, and
wild Highland cattle of every shade of sienna and ochre, nibbling the
brilliantly yellow sea-weed that fringes the loch. After a prolonged
sojourn among large-leaved, luxuriant tropical foliage, the greatest
charm of British woods lies in the smallest leaves, and the graceful
Highland birches excel above all others.
CHAPTER XII
Start for Fiji—Life in Australia and New Zealand—Death of the Rev. F.
and Mrs. Langham.
From the moment of my return to Britain, every one seemed to consider it
a matter of course that I should continue the travels which had hitherto
proved so pleasant, so at every turn I was met by the stereotyped
question, “And where are you going next?” As I had not the remotest
prospect of any more invitations to visit far countries, the question
seemed so silly that I replied in equally stereotyped form, “To Fiji!”
simply because that was the most absolutely improbable idea that could
suggest itself.
Yet of all improbable things this, the most unlikely, very quickly
happened. Before the end of the year the Fijian chiefs had
unconditionally given the whole group of lovely isles to the Great White
Queen, to secure her protection against unscrupulous foreigners, who
were doing all in their power to ruin the people. The gift was accepted,
and the Honourable Sir Arthur Hamilton Gordon, now Lord Stanmore (son of
the Earl of Aberdeen), was appointed first governor.
Lady Hamilton Gordon was a daughter of Sir John Shaw Lefevre—as lovable
and gracious as she was pleasant to the eye—the very ideal of a comely
British matron and happy wife and mother. Believing that my love of
travel and of painting would enable me to make myself happy in the isles
which we all believed to be still somewhat savage (possibly still
cannibal, for really none of us knew anything definite about them—only a
vague recollection of some song about “The King of the Cannibal
Islands”), she invited me to accompany her thither, and needless to say,
I accepted with delight.
So on 23RD MARCH 1875 (Tuesday in Holy Week) I joined the Fijian
Government House party at Charing Cross station, and we crossed to
Boulogne, and thence to Paris, where we attended services at many of the
most interesting churches. On the night of Good Friday we took the train
to Marseilles, where we had a pleasant afternoon of sight-seeing. On
Easter morning we embarked on board the Messageries Maritimes ss.
_Anadyr_. We had one long day at Naples, which of course we all enjoyed,
although the streets were wet and muddy, and sea and sky were cold and
grey. Strange to say, these brief glimpses of Paris, Marseilles, and
Naples form my sole acquaintance with the continent of Europe.
For miles ere we reached Port Said, the “blue” Mediterranean was
literally a sea of mud, the result of prolonged stormy weather, and we
had cold grey weather all the way to Aden. Curiously enough, often as I
have passed through the Red Sea, I have never once experienced the great
heat which many find so trying, and have always found a dress of navy
serge and pilot-cloth jacket the most comfortable clothing. We halted
for three days at Ceylon, where Point de Galle was still the port of
call, and there renewed several old friendships.
We bade adieu to the _Anadyr_ at Singapore, where we had a week to wait
for the ss. _Brisbane_, in which we were to proceed to Australia. A very
pleasant bungalow was lent to Sir Arthur, where we could rest in cool
shade under tropical foliage when we were not exploring the wonders of
the town. But as this was my first contact with real Chinese
life—temples, gardens, processions—all were keenly interesting, and I
was sight-seeing and painting from daybreak till sunset. One of the most
picturesque scenes was the cemetery on the hillside, with all its
horseshoe-shaped graves overshadowed by clumps of feathery bamboo.
Another scene of special interest was a great festival in honour of the
moon-goddess, when the houses were all decorated with scarlet draperies,
and the temples were crowded with gaily-dressed women, as well as men—a
rare sight in China. Even the funeral of a rich man provided a feast of
colour.
On 3rd May we again embarked, but in a very different vessel to the
luxurious French steamer in which we had travelled so far. The
_Brisbane_ proved a dirty little vessel, with wretched accommodation
mid-ships, and five hundred and twenty very low-class Chinamen fore and
aft, either bound to work on estates in Australia or to try their
fortune at the gold diggings at Cooktown. So from whichever direction
the wind blew, it brought us overpowering stinks of Chinese
cooking—_ghee_, ancient cabbage, salt-fish, and other horrors. The poor
creatures were packed in tiers several deep—one of them died, and was
dropped overboard.
So, although the sea was calm as glass, literally without a ripple, and
our sail through the beautiful Malay Archipelago, coasting lovely isles,
was delightful to the eye, our afflicted noses refused to be comforted.
We were not sorry when these poor toilers reached their various
destinations, as we touched at various northern ports—Cooktown,
Townsville, Bowen, Rockhampton, etc.; and when on 21st May we anchored
in Morton Bay, there a small steamer was waiting to take us up the river
to Government House at Brisbane, where our pleasantest impressions were
of the beauty of the semi-tropical botanic gardens and a sunset drive
along the river banks.
On the 23rd we re-embarked, and on the 25th steamed up the lovely
harbour to Sydney, where we were cordially welcomed by Sir Hercules and
Lady Robinson; but as space at Government House was limited, Commodore
and Mrs. Goodenough had offered to receive me—a privilege for which I
never can be sufficiently thankful, for to have been the guest of that
grand sailor, saint, and martyr, only too soon became one of life’s
landmarks.
On 20th August he died from the wounds received eight days before from
poisoned arrows, shot by islanders of Santa Cruz to avenge cruel
kidnapping by a trading-vessel; just as, for the same reason, they had
previously shot Bishop Patterson, thus in their ignorance slaying their
two most devoted friends.
Ere starting on this fatal voyage, the Commodore had taken Sir Arthur
and all the gentlemen of his party to Fiji, leaving Lady Gordon, the two
children, and me at Sydney, there to remain till a suitable home could
be prepared for us in the Fijian Isles. We were much made of by many
kind Australians, and I profited by the delay, which enabled me to
explore the Blue Mountains, and secure careful paintings of Govat’s
Leap, the Weatherboard, and other places of special interest, as well as
of many lovely scenes in the numberless creeks of the great harbour.
What memories of fragrance and beauty come back to me when I think of
the headlands, covered with many varieties of _epacris_ (which to me
appeared like hot-house heaths), rank masses of scented geranium,
thickets of yellow mimosa, and countless other wild flowers, while in
the gardens large tree-camelias showered their crimson and white
blossoms on the grass, and the scent of orange-blossom perfumed the air.
On the 9th September we embarked on board the _Egmont_, which was
specially chartered to take a detachment of engineers to do Government
work in Fiji. Very fortunately for me, the superintendent of the
Wesleyan mission, the Rev. Fred. Langham, and his wife, obtained a
passage on board of her, and thus we became firm friends, and much of my
delightful voyaging in the next two years to many of the loveliest isles
in the Fijian Archipelago was entirely due to their kindness in taking
me with them in their mission-ship, when they visited their native
clergy.
Australia had given us so much to think about, that our ideas of the
condition of the two hundred and fifty isles composing the Fijian group
were still somewhat hazy, when we were startled by Mr. Langham’s reply
to one of the engineers, who told him that they hoped to be of some use
to the poor islanders, and had brought a lot of copy-books to try if
they could teach them something.
He expressed his pleasure that they were coming with such kindly
purpose, but added that they would find the islanders already knew a
little, as they had eight hundred schools and as many churches, where
native teachers taught, and native clergy ministered, supported by the
villagers, who themselves had built their schools and churches. He might
have added what we subsequently ascertained, that there was scarcely a
house throughout the group (except in one small mountain district which
still continued heathen) where the family did not begin and end the day
with family prayer and reading the Scriptures, not as a matter of form,
but in all the earnestness of first love.
And yet it was not fifty years since two humble Wesleyan missionaries
had had the amazing courage to land among those most cruelly cannibal
people, and for the first time deliver to them the Message of Love,
which, two thousand years before, their Master had bidden all who have
heard it, pass on to those who have not received it. And that message
had wrought so marvellous a transformation, that the whole race had
become the gentlest and most earnest Christians I have ever known.
And this involved their practically becoming vegetarians as a first step
in the new direction, as the isles yielded no pasturage, and
consequently no animal food whatsoever, except fish, which was a very
uncertain supply, and the pigs, descended from those left by Captain
Cook, were far too precious for use except on great occasions. I often
wonder how we should face such a test as this.
It is not my purpose now to speak of the next two years, of which every
day was full of interest and novelty. In my book, _At Home in Fiji_,
published by Blackwood, I have described all this, and also our
enchanting visit to Sir George Grey, in his delightful Isle Kawau, off
the north coast of New Zealand, and my own still more fascinating visit
to the Wonderland of the pink and white terraces, and all other marvels
of the volcanic region in the North Isle.
The pictures which I happily secured at that time were all borrowed by
the New Zealand Commissioners, for exhibition in the great Indian and
Colonial Exhibition in London, and were actually on show when the awful
tidings came of how (after its summit had for fully eight hundred years
been the burial-place of great Maori chiefs) Tarawera, the so-called
extinct, but in truth only dormant volcano had suddenly reawakened as a
mighty giant, refreshed by his sleep of ages, and had wrought awful
destruction all around, reducing to chaos the fairyland which had so
fascinated all travellers.
Here I can scarcely resist recording my gratification at the wholly
unexpected heartiness of the welcome which was accorded to that book on
Fiji and New Zealand by reviewers representing every phase of opinion.
But indeed I may say the same of each of my books in succession—so
unanimous has been the kindly appreciation with which my critics have
received each fresh series of the notes of this wanderer.
All I wish now to say about our life in Fiji is simply as a brief
postscript to suggest a few of the developments of twenty-five years.
The Dr. M‘Gregor of my story, whose sympathy with and influence over
brown races was so remarkable, became the first Governor of British New
Guinea, and now, as Sir William M‘Gregor, rules over Lagos.[57] He was
succeeded in the government of New Guinea by George Ruthven Le Hunte,
who was the youngest of our party, and whom we called “our British boy,”
because he so excellently embodied our ideal of such an one. He received
the honour of knighthood on his promotion to be Governor of South
Australia. Captain Havelock, now Sir Arthur Havelock, has ruled over a
succession of colonies, as has also Sir Arthur Gordon, whose Fijian
“Round-Table” assuredly sent forth many earnest knights-errant to do
their country’s work in distant lands.
Very pathetic was the closing chapter in the life of my friends, the
Rev. Frederick and Mrs. Langham. They had begun their work in Fiji in
1858, when many of the tribes were still heathen, and the horrible old
customs still continued. But by their unvarying kindness and courtesy,
and attention to all that was not actually wicked in native manners
(Fijian etiquette being curiously well defined), they won the love and
confidence of the most savage men and women. Mr. Langham remained longer
in the isles and baptized a larger number of the people than any other
missionary. Except for brief furloughs in Australia, he and Mrs. Langham
were there for forty years.
The Bible was first translated into Fijian in 1865, and was immensely
read and really studied and loved by the people. But when the
missionaries (who had to commence by reducing Fijian to a written
language) became more thoroughly conversant with its niceties, they felt
that a revision was desirable, and so in 1898 Mr. and Mrs. Langham and
their adopted daughter, Annie Lindsay, came to London to do this work
for the British and Foreign Bible Society. Annie was the daughter of a
neighbouring missionary, and being born and bred in the isles, spoke the
Bau dialect (which is the purest “classic” Fijian) as her mother-tongue.
Together they worked at verse by verse, and great was their joy when
they heard of the extreme satisfaction with which in 1901 the New
Testament was received by the islanders.
With heart and soul they continued their very toilsome labour of love,
and were far advanced towards completing the revision of the Old
Testament, when just before Christmas in 1901 Annie caught a cold, which
rapidly developed into pneumonia, and she died. I received a
heart-broken letter from the dear old man, telling me that his wife
could not raise her head for sorrow, and that she was suffering from the
same illness. Only a few days later she also passed away, leaving him
desolate indeed.
Happily the Rev. Joseph Nettleton and his wife—retired Fijian
missionaries—were at hand to give him such comfort as was possible, and
to help in revising his final proofsheets. At last the Old Testament was
also complete, and then his life’s work was finished. By the advice of
Sir William M‘Gregor, who for ten years had witnessed Mr. Langham’s work
in Fiji, the University of Glasgow then conferred upon him the degree of
Doctor of Divinity, and he left London, purposing to go first to
Liverpool to address a conference, and thence to Glasgow to be
ceremonially invested with cap and gown.
On the journey he was taken ill, and after some weeks in Liverpool he
wished to be brought back to London, whence, on 25th June 1903, he
passed away. Shortly before his death he said: “I have seen a vision. I
thought I was sleeping, as we so often slept on the deck of the schooner
in the South Seas. I awoke at midnight. The Southern Cross was above me,
and all that part of the sky was luminous. The stars forming the cross
came down towards me. They were very near and very bright. Then behind
the stars I saw the face of my dear one—only her face, for her robe
faded away into light. She smiled, and said to me, “_Edaru ena tiko vata
tale_ (‘We two will live together again’). It was all very real to me.”
When told that it was doubtless a premonition, as he himself had reached
the brink of “the river,” he said: “It is all right, all is clear. I
have not to seek my Saviour. He is a living, bright reality to me now.
There is no love like His, and I am resting upon His love. He knows what
is best.” Then he repeated the first verse of “Jesu, Lover of my soul,”
in Fijian. Early on Sunday morning he passed away from this earth, on
which he had been the means of helping so many to pass from grossest
darkness into the true light.
Instead of being “capped” on earth, he was called to receive that crown
of life which his Master and ours has promised to all who are faithful
unto death, as he assuredly was. I think all who knew that venerable old
man in his latter years, with his halo of long, silvery white hair, felt
that they were in the presence of one of God’s own saints.
The close of his life was saddened by a very painful event on his
beloved Rewa river (where I spent such a delightful time with him and
his wife, travelling from village to village in the mission-boat, right
up to beautiful Namosi with its shapely peaked mountains). This was the
nominal conversion to the Church of Rome of the Namosi Chief and a
considerable number of his tribe, and the solemn _auto-da-fé_ of two
hundred and thirty-eight copies of the New Testament which were
collected in the Namosi district, in exchange for rosaries, and brought
about sixty miles down the river to Naililili, there to be publicly
cremated in a Fijian lime-kiln by the Roman Catholic sisters and other
ecclesiastical authorities in presence of many natives and Europeans.
Other copies of the Scriptures obtained in the Soloira district were
torn up by the priests on the passage down the Rewa and thrown into the
river, whence portions were recovered and given to Mr. Swayne,
Government Commissioner. When accounts of this reached Australia, so
much indignation was evoked, that the “Bible-burning” was denied _in
toto_ by the highest ecclesiastical authorities—the quibble being in the
word Bible, instead of New Testament. Afterwards a corrected version was
published to say that “in accordance with the practice of the Catholic
Church to destroy by fire all sacred objects when worn out, the Catholic
sisters had filled one kerosene-case with soiled and useless Wesleyan
Testaments, which had been exchanged for Catholic books.” Some
bystanders, however, contrived to rescue several Testaments which,
except for having had the covers violently torn off, were in perfect
condition, as well they might be, seeing that they were copies of Dr.
Langham’s new translation, printed by the British and Foreign Bible
Society in 1901. One copy bears an inscription proving that it was
bought by the owner on May 23, 1902, less than nine months before it was
so ruthlessly dealt with.
The circumstances which led to this very distressing occurrence are as
follows:—When New Zealand refused to join the new Australian
Commonwealth, some of her politicians strove to form a New Zealand
Commonwealth by incorporating South Sea Islands, especially Fiji, in
which a special crusade was started against the “crown colony” form of
government, and especially the stringent regulations against selling
liquor to natives, which hitherto have done so much to save the Fijian
race.
The promise of free trade in drink, and of a general time of glorious
liberty, found favour with sundry discontented white men, and some of
the chiefs, amongst others the Chief of Namosi. The Wesleyan native
minister excited his anger by using all his influence in support of the
existing government, whereupon the chief said that he and his people
would join the “Seventh Day Adventists,” who have now secured a small
footing in Fiji. These refused to receive him, telling him that as soon
as his anger subsided, he would return to his old church.
Then, in still greater dudgeon, he applied to Father Rougier for
admission to the Roman Church, into which, needless to say, he was
forthwith received, together with several hundreds of his people, who,
whatever their real religious convictions, believe that federation with
New Zealand will mean getting rid of all the restrictions and necessary
taxation imposed upon them by their present government.
It is one of the saddest things I know to note how, in all the different
groups of beautiful Pacific isles, the first whole-hearted conversion to
a simple Christian faith and life becomes tarnished after much contact
with merely nominal Christians of other nationalities, especially when,
as in New Zealand, political matters and land-grabbing come into play.
CHAPTER XIII
Cruise on a French Man-of-War—Tongan
Isles—Samoa—Taheiti—California—Japan.
The arrival of British or other men-of-war always brought some little
stir, and some accession to our somewhat limited society, as of course
the officers called at Government House, where Sir Arthur and Lady
Gordon showed them all possible hospitality.
In August 1877 a French man-of-war, _Le Seignelay_, came into harbour on
a very peaceful errand. She had been appointed to take Monseigneur
Elloi, the Roman Catholic Bishop of Samoa on _le tour de la mission_,
_i.e._ to visit all the mission-stations in his diocese. He had already
visited Easter Isle and some other very interesting places, but had
still to visit the Samoan (or Navigators), the Tongan (or Friendly
Isles), and the Tahitian (or Society) group.
Two kinder or more courtly gentlemen than the bishop and the captain,
Commandant Aube, could not be found, and indeed all the officers were
gentlemen of the best type. We all became great friends, and they were
keenly interested in my portfolios of Australia, New Zealand, and many
Fijian Isles which they could not visit. But we could scarcely believe
they were all in earnest when one day Commandant Aube called and
formally invited me to go with the _Seignelay_ to Tonga, Samoa, and
Tahiti.
The invitation had to be reiterated and backed by that of all our
friends on board ere Sir Arthur could believe that it was really quite
genuine, but when Baron Anatole von Hügel, one of our own party, went on
board and saw the delightful cabin assigned to me through the unselfish
kindness of M. de Gironde, and brought back fresh messages of welcome,
Lady Gordon so thoroughly entered into my wish not to throw away so
unique a chance of visiting isles which by no other possibility could I
ever hope to see, that it was decided that I might accept the kind
captain’s generous offer of hospitality, at least so far as Samoa, where
I had an invitation to visit the wife of the consul, and whence I should
doubtless find some means of returning to Fiji.
So on 5TH SEPTEMBER Lady Gordon, Captain Knollys, and dear little Jack
in his sailor’s dress, escorted me on board _Le Seignelay_, which became
to me the very kindest home till 7TH OCTOBER, when we reached Tahiti.
From the 7th to the 15th September we were in the beautiful Tongan
group, where every hour was full of interest; and from 18th September to
2nd October we were in the still more lovely Samoan Isles, among
mountains, rivers, orange-groves, palms, splendid thickets of bananas,
and most attractive people. But there, alas! civil war, fostered by evil
white men, was causing bloodshed and misery; every man’s hand against
his neighbour.
It soon became evident that to return thence to Fiji would be absolutely
impossible, even had I cared to risk travelling in such company as
sailed in those trading-vessels. I therefore gratefully accepted the
cordially renewed invitation to proceed on board _Le Seignelay_ to
Tahiti, where I was first most cordially welcomed by Mr. and Mrs. Green
at the London Mission, and afterwards by Mrs. Brander, alias “Titaua,”
the highest chief next to King Pomare, who was married to her sister
Marau.
All through our voyage my companions had been telling me of this
delightful _demi-blanche_, Madame Brandère. So I looked forward with
much interest to making her acquaintance, and when taken by Mr. Green to
do so, I was turning over in my mind what insular topics we could find
in common, when to my amazement she asked whether I had lately been in
Morayshire? and whether I had recently seen Lady Dunbar Brander?
Then it suddenly flashed upon my memory that a connection of the
Branders of Pitgaveny had many years before left the north to carve his
own fortune in the South Seas, and this was how he had done it. He had
invested his capital in trading-ships, which proved highly remunerative,
and had enormously enlarged his connection by marrying this good and
beautiful woman, who owned great estates in various parts of the group,
and ruled her people wisely and well, but with the absolute power of a
feudal chief. She was a woman of rare ability, who after her husband’s
death carried on all the command of her fleet of trading-ships,
personally ordering every detail, and consulted on many business matters
by the French civil and naval authorities.
Of course their seizure of the isles had been a terrible trial to her,
as to all her people, but she had wisely resolved to make the best of
the unavoidable evil. She was an earnestly religious woman, and grieved
bitterly over the very immoral influence of the usurpers, which she and
the hitherto loved and revered missionaries were powerless to
counteract. She also suffered seriously in business matters from the
adverse influence of her own trading German sons-in-law, and from the
new French law, which compelled equal division of property among all her
children.
Feeling the need of a strong man with authority to take her part, she
married her husband’s manager, George Darsie, and some years later
actually made up her mind to remove her younger children from the
dangerous influences to which they were exposed. Such was the strength
of her mother-love, that she forsook her lovely homes in Tahiti and
Moorea, and brought her family to settle at bleak Anstruther, in Fife,
which had been Mr. Darsie’s early home. A more absolute contrast in
every respect to her own poetic isles could not be conceived, but she
felt that it was worth the sacrifice. At Anstruther she died, and her
daughter, Paloma, “the dove,” who could not bear ever to leave the spot
where that dear mother was buried, happily found her own true love in
the manse close by, and as wife of the young parish minister, lived on
for some years close to her half-brothers and sisters.
Of my ideal six months in Tahiti and Moorea, as well as the enchanting
weeks in the Tongan and Samoan groups, up to that wonderful Easter
morning when I passed through “the golden gates” and landed in
California, I have written a very full account in my _Lady’s Cruise in a
French Man-of-War_, published by Blackwood.
In California I found such attractive sketching-ground that six months
slipped away like so many weeks, chiefly in the grand Sierra Nevada. I
lived most of the time in the Yo Semite valley, at the very foot of the
stupendous falls (2630 feet in height), which give their name to the
wonderful valley; thence riding in every direction to paint the many
other falls, and view the sierras from various mountain summits.
I arrived in the valley when the snows had just melted sufficiently to
make access possible, and when leafless trees enabled me to secure
accurate drawings of crags which soon were veiled by delicate green
foliage; I watched the thickets of bare sticks develop into masses of
most fragrant small yellow azalea, and the green banks of the “river of
mercy” (the Merced) became starred with a profusion of lovely blossoms
which we cultivate in gardens.
I watched all the changing effects when the melting snows of the higher
sierras brought down all the falls in flood, and transformed the green
meadows in the valley to quiet lakes, reflecting the sky and trees; then
the waters dried up, leaving everything greener than ever—a rest and
delight to the eye.
But far beyond expression was the loveliness of the Californian forests,
in which (only in about half-a-dozen groves where the soil is amazingly
rich and deep) grow the _Sequoia Gigantea_, which we so very unfairly
persist in calling Wellingtonia—the Americans justly saying that if we
must give them a man’s name it should be Washingtonia.
The only way in which it is possible to give people in this country an
idea of their size is by taking about thirty-five yards of tape and
pegging it out in a circle on the lawn. Then you can realise the
circumference of these trees. The big ones range from ninety to one
hundred and twenty feet. In themselves they are not beautiful, being
very much like the red trees in children’s Noah’s arks, with a little
tuft of green branches at the top. But they are so surrounded by
entrancingly graceful sugar-pines, Douglasias, and other magnificent
trees, that the whole combines to produce a dream of loveliness, a true
forest sanctuary.
I dare not trust my pen to start on such reminiscences. It has already
had free play in my book, _Granite Crags of California_, published by
Blackwood.
So I will pass on to 16th August, 1878, when I bade adieu to San
Francisco, to which I paid four distinct visits, and sailed for Japan,
reaching Yokohama on 6th September.
Owing to my somewhat erratic movements, I reached Japan before the
principal letters of introduction which should have awaited me there, so
I had to find quarters at the hotel, and as the flood of tourists had
not then set in, hotels in the east were not then so luxurious as they
are now.
On the following morning I received one of many pleasant proofs of how
small the world is. A visitor was announced who, to my pleasurable
amazement, proved to be the very nice woman who had accompanied me to
India as my lady’s-maid, there to take charge of my sister’s children,
and who, refusing a number of “most advantageous” offers of marriage,
had resolutely stuck to her charge till they reached Sussex, when she
announced her engagement to one of the ship’s stewards. In course of
time they found themselves in Japan, and decided to run a really
respectable hotel for foreigners in Tokio. They had only just started
the enterprise, and very soon found it necessary to seek fortune
elsewhere.
Needless to say, I very soon moved thither, and was well cared for till
invitations reached me from various kind friends, first and foremost
from Henry Dyer, the creator of the Kobu-dai-Gakko or Imperial College
of Engineering, which, under his powerful leading and instruction,
became the training-centre for a host of clever young Japanese
engineers, by whom all manner of railway and other work has been carried
out, and bridges built in every part of the group.
When Japan applied to Scotland for the best man she could send to teach
practical engineering, there was no doubt at all as to Mr. Dyer being
the best, the only drawback being his youth. But his splendid height and
preternatural Scottish gravity were such that on his arrival in, I
think, 1872, standing fully head and shoulders above his future pupils,
any question as to his age would have been preposterous, and he was at
once recognised as the embodiment of all the desired wisdom, which was
not only to include the different branches of engineering, but also
various manufacturing arts.
The first problems he had to face were to draw out a scheme of technical
education to enable young Japan to acquire the most practical knowledge
on these subjects, and to build a suitable college for his purpose. He
was met by suggestions for doing this on a Lilliputian scale, which he
at once set aside, and insisted on a handsome brick and stone building
on high ground overlooking the castle moats. Within its spacious grounds
were houses for himself, as principal, and for nine professors,
dormitories for students, class-rooms, lecture-rooms, library, a noble
common hall, kitchens, laboratories for the students of chemistry,
engineering, etc.
As all tuition is given in English, the students have to commence by
acquiring a thorough knowledge of an alien tongue. There are special
professors for teaching English, drawing, mathematics, natural
philosophy, chemistry, engineering, telegraphic and mechanical
engineering, surveying, architecture, mineralogy, geology, mining and
metallurgy. The four last were added to enable students to help in
developing the great mining resources of the country.
The students acquire their practical knowledge of engineering in the
great Government works of Akabané, where every conceivable variety of
engines and machines are constructed for use on _terra firma_. Not only
was Mr. Dyer called upon to supply bridges of every construction for all
parts of the Empire, but machinery of every sort and kind was required
at his hands, often taxing his fertile mechanical genius to the very
utmost.
When we look at the latest maps of Japan, and see the railways already
made, or in course of construction throughout the group, and hear of the
telegraphs, telephones, dockyards, shipbuilding yards, arsenals, etc.,
to which Japan owes so much of her present strength, we can form some
idea of the amount of very varied work which has been accomplished by
students trained at this College.
It was very gratifying to Mr. Dyer, after his retirement into private
life at Glasgow, to receive a letter from the Prime Minister of Japan,
saying that the College he had created had been greatly instrumental in
saving Japan from Russia.
In the extraordinarily rapid development of Japan in every branch of
Western knowledge, it very soon became necessary to remove the Imperial
College of Engineering to a much larger building elsewhere, and Mr.
Dyer’s building was transformed into a College for Nobles under the
title of Teikoku Daigaku, or Imperial University.
One point of interest, which will rapidly increase in value, is the very
fine museum in which Mr. Dyer collected specimens of all manner of
Japanese products and models of the native machinery which is already
obsolete, and would so soon be quite forgotten.
There are also admirable models of all sorts of bridges, engines, and
mechanical appliances, while round the walls hang characteristic
paintings by native artists, to illustrate all stages of every process
of Japanese industry and agriculture, such as ploughing, sowing,
reaping, tea-planting, tea-gathering and drying, cultivation of silk
worms from the earliest care of the egg to the production of richest
brocades, house-building, and manufactures of all sorts. These are a
most interesting series, and represent many phases of native life, which
will soon exist only as memories. For if it be true that soon the
children of Britain and America will fail to understand the simple
parables of “The Sower,” “The Reapers,” and “The Gleaners,” because to
them steam-engines represent all details of husbandry, it is likely to
be equally true in this country of amazingly rapid progress.
And how amazing it has been! Remember I landed in Japan in 1878, and the
previous ten years had witnessed the most surprising revolution of
modern history. It was in 1867 that, at the age of fifteen, the present
Emperor, the Mikado Mutsu Hito, succeeded to his divine office, and that
Keiki succeeded to the temporal power as Shogun, the previous Shogun and
Mikado having each died of sheer over-anxiety and perplexity at all the
worries forced upon them by the determination of foreigners to secure
access to Japanese harbours and commerce, and the heavy indemnities by
which alone the havoc of big guns could be averted.
Keiki, convinced that the division of power was a serious drawback to
the progress of the country, resigned his office, and the wondering land
slowly realised that the power and glory of the Shogunate was a story of
the past, and that the Mikado would henceforth hold undivided sway. Very
unfortunately, however, the Imperial Government began by removing from
office all the great _daimios_ who were specially friendly to the
Shogunate, and replacing them by followers of the Princes of Satsuma and
Choshiu.
This was too much for Keiki, who, repenting of his magnanimous
abdication, placed himself at the head of the malcontents, and a
grievously bloody but happily brief civil war ensued, in which many
temples and beautiful tombs were destroyed, though happily many were
chivalrously spared in response to the Mikado’s appeal to the rebels.
The Imperial troops came off victorious, and the last of the mighty and
magnificent Shoguns retired to live the life of a simple country
gentleman in his castle at Skidzuoka, while his followers, no longer
encumbered with two swords, and a very natural craving to make use of
them, devoted themselves to the cultivation of the land, and of tea in
particular.
The city of Yeddo had for long been the Windsor of the Shoguns. But now
its name was changed to Tokio, which means “the eastern capital,” as
Kioto signifies “the capital of the west,” having for many centuries
been the home where, surrounded by marvels of art, the ancestors of the
Mikado had dwelt in rigid seclusion.
The young Emperor was now induced to abandon that strange policy, and to
show himself to his people. So in the autumn of 1868 he removed his
court from Kioto to the more accessible position of Tokio, and the
castle of the Shoguns became the Imperial palace.
From that time till the present the only very serious outbreak that has
occurred has been the great rebellion in Satsuma in 1876–77, when
discontented _daimios_ and _samurai_, who still clung to the old order
of things and hated to see the annihilation of their own power and the
encroachments of foreigners, strove to make one last effort to restore
the vanished past and regain their lost position. There was obstinate
fighting on both sides, and the impoverished land once more saw her sons
shedding one another’s blood in civil war, at a cost to the treasury of
upwards of eight millions sterling.
Strange indeed is the change which has so rapidly overspread the land.
To our matter-of-fact notions it seems well-nigh incredible that the
mighty _daimios_, who ten years before exercised greater power than our
own highest nobles in old feudal days, should at the bidding of the
Emperor carry out their high views of chivalry and self-abnegation in so
practical a manner as from sheer patriotism to give up their vast
estates and enormous retinues, retaining only one-tenth of their
revenues, and quietly assume the character of simple country gentlemen.
Their retainers, the two-sworded Samurai, and even the proud Hatamoto,
formerly the most overbearing class in the country, all alike dispersed
to seek their bread where they could find it, and from positions of
considerable wealth fell into deepest poverty. Those who had family
treasures of rare old works of art lived for a while by selling these to
foreigners, and set up in trade, formerly so much despised. Some became
clerks in Government offices, some teachers in the schools, and I was
told that many were earning their daily pittance by running jinrikshas
at sixpence an hour, or working as _bettos_ (grooms) in the service of
the once-hated foreigner; and how friendly and obliging they are!
Once I realised the antecedents of the jin-riki-ya (our human ponies),
their wonderful endurance and power of adaptation to circumstances
became to me a source of endless wonder, and was infinitely pathetic.
They seemed to be always cheery, always on the look out for a joke,
invariably obliging and extraordinarily polite, and yet, poor fellows,
what a hard life was theirs, of such abject poverty as to make them
eagerly compete for the wretched small coin to be earned by trotting for
many miles in the capacity of carriage-horses. The rate of payment is
according to a regular tariff, which varies in different parts of the
country, ranging from five to twelve _sen_ (cents) a _ri_, the _ri_
being about two and a half miles!
Such meagre pay for such hard work does not sound tempting, yet I was
told that in Tokio alone there were actually twenty-three thousand men
who were thus earning their scanty bread. Many of these were said to
have been of comparatively gentle birth, and certainly they had little
foreseen that a day would come when they would be reduced to real hard
labour. Yet they accepted their lot as if it were the pleasantest
position possible, instead of being a hard struggle for life. Underfed
and wretchedly clothed, these poor fellows stand shivering in the cold
till happily some one comes by rich enough to hire them.
At certain places there are regular stands answering to our cab-stands,
where a number of jinrikshas are always in waiting. When a fare
approaches they draw lots to decide which of them shall have the job.
Their method of drawing lots is very simple. They have a bunch of many
pieces of string, all of different lengths, and whoever secures the
longest end gets the run; and off he starts at a rattling pace, perhaps
dragging two full-grown people up hill and down for several miles.
The power of endurance of most of these men is perfectly amazing—some of
them are so glad to secure a job, that they will undertake to run twenty
miles a day for several successive days, rather than yield their place
and their little earnings to another. It certainly is not a matter of
wonder that so many should have early developed heart complaint and
consumption, from which many have died.
When I was returning from beautiful Nikko to Tokio with the French
Minister of Legation, who wished to economise time, we had seven
jinrikshas, which with their passenger averaged two hundred pounds
weight. Each was drawn by two men, who two days previously had brought
the Russian admiral and a party of officers up the long, steep ascent,
trotting eighty English miles in one day, with such wretched straw
sandals that they were almost barefoot. These same men trotted back with
us, doing one hundred and eight miles in two days, having only halted
each day for breakfast, and a very few minutes besides, and all that we
might reach Tokio by 3.30. “It is the pace that kills!”
The regulation dress of the jin-riki-ya is a dark blue garment with long
loose sleeves, fastened at the waist, and tight knee-breeches, also dark
blue; bare legs and straw sandals tied on with wisps of straw. While
patiently waiting for a fare, they sit wrapped up in the scarlet
blanket, which is their only warm garment, and which they most carefully
and kindly wrap round your knees as you take your seat. For very wet
weather they have a waterproof coat of oiled paper, or else one of
grass, which looks exactly as if they were thatched.
Sometimes when warm with running, and at a safe distance from the
police, they slip off all these superfluous garments, and reveal most
wonderfully beautiful tattooing of mediæval history, covering them from
head to foot. What tortures they must have endured in the production of
such elaborate pictures! Truly it would be a sin against art not to
allow us to see them!
A large number of the Samurai found useful work in the police-force,
which pervades every district of the wide empire. They are all
exceedingly polite, and very quiet, rarely interfering unnecessarily.
They wear a neat European uniform—a dark frock coat, belt, and white
trousers. One can scarcely believe that these well-drilled, orderly men
can be the swashbucklers who so recently were ready to cut down any
inoffensive foreigner who did not get out of their way.
Happily they command much the same unquestioning obedience as do our own
police, for you see a tiny official arrest a prisoner gently but firmly,
and then producing from his pocket a ball of strong cord, he winds it
round the body of the offender, and then ties his wrists to his back,
leaving a couple of yards free, and holding these like reins, he
politely requests the prisoner to walk before him, which he does without
the slightest resistance!
As to the prisons where heretofore prisoners were subject to barbarous
tortures, all arrangements are now said to be ideal, and all prisoners
are educated to do profitable work, in whatever line they seem capable
of acquiring. Clever burglars become wonderfully skilful wood-carvers,
some are employed in making fans, others make paper lanterns, straw
sandals, or baskets, some make delicate pottery or cloisonné; there are
weavers, printers, rice-pounders, stone-breakers, some even constructing
jinrikshas, all working for the good of their country, while perhaps
acquiring a hitherto unknown means of afterwards earning an honest
living. Thus Japanese prisons are now true reformatories.
To return to the Kobu-dai-Gakko. The Mikado and the Empress Haruku have
taken the keenest personal interest in extensive educational schemes for
all classes of their subjects, and Mr. Dyer’s work at the Imperial
College of Engineering received their strongest personal encouragement.
Only a few weeks before my arrival, the Mikado had paid the college a
state visit, which of course was a very solemn ceremonial. His Imperial
Majesty was escorted by all the princes of the blood, the great nobles,
privy councillors, and all manner of Government officials, who, if only
they had appeared in their beautiful national dress, would have been a
joy to behold. But, alas! the silken robes were all replaced by European
uniforms; gold lace, and cocked hats, or, still more unbecoming, by
simple suits of black.
No one can suffer more from this change of dress than the Mikado
himself, who is a man of middle stature, and not remarkable for personal
beauty, but to whom the robes of state must have lent a dignity which is
not enhanced by a stiff, gold-embroidered black coat, white trousers
with red stripe, and cocked hat.
The very coachman who drove his handsome open carriage also wore the
cocked hat of state. But none of these details will strike you as
remarkable unless you remember that heretofore the sacred person of the
Mikado has been veiled from all eyes, his own great nobles only being
admitted to do homage to a glimpse of his robe just revealed from behind
the screen which concealed the Sun of Heaven.
Now, having burst from his bonds, he takes his part freely in all state
ceremonials, after the manner of European sovereigns.
On the present occasion he was conducted to a dais in the great hall,
where he received an address, and replied in a short speech, both in
Japanese, and both intoned in a rapid sing-song. Other speeches
followed, and some of the leading students had the very alarming
privilege of delivering short essays on various learned topics, after
which His Majesty made a grand inspection of all departments of the
college, and allowed all the foreign masters and professors the honour
of being presented to him.
As the court ceremonial did not permit of any ladies being present on
that occasion, the Empress was not allowed to accompany her lord, so she
determined to come on her own account.
A general order had been given for the exclusion of all foreigners, so
of course my host was the last person who could venture to help me to
obtain a stolen glimpse of the Imperial beauty. However, the chance was
one not to be lost, and so I went out alone in search of a good
position, and fortune proved propitious. I got under a big fir-tree on a
hillock overlooking the library door, at which the carriages stopped,
and with my faithful companions (the good opera-glasses which have
accompanied me on so many travels) I saw admirably.
First came several carriages with maids-of-honour, in green brocade
dresses and loose scarlet trousers, their glossy black hair dressed flat
like a soup-plate. Then came outriders bearing purple flags with
chrysanthemums or kiku (the Imperial crest) embroidered in gold, and
finally the Empress’s handsome English close carriage, with
chrysanthemum, which also figured on the scarlet hammercloth, and in
gold brocade on the white silk lining. But the windows were closed, and
muslin curtains drawn, so that I only saw the shiny top of the Imperial
head as her ladies closed round the Empress while she alighted. But a
few minutes later they all had to walk along an open verandah very near
my hiding-place.
As she passed along this open corridor in very slow procession, I had
the satisfaction of an excellent view of the Empress and the attendant
Princesses Arisugawa and Higashi-Fushimi. The impression thus obtained
was a very pleasant one. The Empress has a pleasant and intellectual
expression. She is decidedly small, but looked extremely dignified in
her crimson skirt and white robe of embroidered silk, made something
like a sacque, flowing loose from the neck, which is the ancient
court-dress.
The Princesses wore dresses made in the same style, white and crimson
(the Imperial colours) predominating. The face and neck of all three
ladies were powdered with white, and all three wore their hair in the
true court fashion, which is quite unlike that of ordinary life. The
hair is combed back from the face and dressed very smoothly over a
concealed framework of light cane, shaped like a crescent, which
encircles the brow and gives just the necessary support. No ornament of
any sort is allowed; the hair is merely tied at the back of the head
with a strip of white paper, and hangs behind in a simple plait.
I cannot make out whether this white paper is used as an affectation of
studied simplicity, or whether it has some symbolic meaning, strips of
white paper being the most sacred emblem in the Shinto temples, in which
the Mikado, as the offspring of the sun, receives such devout homage.
From the Empress downwards, all wore foreign shoes. I only hope they did
not prove the thin end of a wedge which may have brought European
fashions to supersede the national costume, to which the ladies almost
without exception still continued faithful at that time.
I heard that the Empress won golden opinions from all present by her
gentle, unaffected manners, and evident interest in everything about the
college. Amongst other novelties prepared for her amusement and that of
her ladies, were microphones and telephones, through which they listened
to the dulcet melodies of a company of blind musicians, who were
stationed in another part of the building.
They stayed at the college about six hours, and as I returned to Mrs.
Dyer’s house, I saw the Empress’s carriage, covered with a handsome
green cloth, with gold chrysanthemum, the hammercloth with a blue cover,
and all the carriage-horses and horses of the escort with blue clothes,
all bearing the same Imperial crest, the whole within a temporary wooden
enclosure hung with the black cloth, with white oblongs, which denotes
sacred Imperial property.
I noticed the same curious black and white cloth hung across a certain
bridge in the Mikado’s own beautiful park, which we understood to be an
indication that the further side was private. In the part to which we
were allowed access there is a succession of ingenious Japanese gardens,
with artificial lakes, streams, cascades, rocks, green lawns, fine old
dwarfed fir-trees, clumps of bamboos, and all manner of dainty
prettinesses.
But these, in varying detail, we saw repeated so often that I confess
they at last lost something of their first fascination, and that is what
can never be said of the exquisite natural scenery which I found
wherever I had the good-fortune to go, and which was described to me as
being just as lovely throughout the group, and always enhanced by the
prettiness of tea-houses or little shrines perched just in the right
spot for general effect.
As for attempting by any mere words to give the faintest idea of the
enchanting groves and gorgeous shrines at Uyeno, Shiba, Nikko, and
elsewhere, it has been often attempted, but is altogether hopeless.
Coloured stereoscopes of individual portions might convey some faint
idea, but even they could do little, for while every detail is artistic
and of exquisite beauty, half the charm lies in the combination of so
many beautiful objects, all clustered together on these steep hillsides,
enfolded in the cool, deep shades of the evergreen forest, stately
cryptomerias whose tops seem to touch the deep blue sky, and the
undergrowth of wild camelia-trees, which when I first saw them were
gemmed all over with pink single blossoms, and showering their leaves in
a rosy shower on the soft green moss.
When you consider that Tokio alone, with its noble castle, parks, and
moats, overshadowed by most picturesquely gnarled old “Scotch firs,” is
said to cover almost as large an area as London, and to contain at least
five hundred temples and shrines, besides the countless quaint shows and
curio-shops, and the crowds of delightfully polite, prettily dressed
women and children, you can understand that a traveller on first
arriving finds it difficult to start further afield. Yet every
expedition I made in each new direction seemed more fascinating than the
last, and many kind friends escorted me to the points of greatest
interest from different centres right away south to Nagasaki, which is
the beautiful seaport nearest to China.
Mrs. Dyer’s hospitable house continued to be my home from whence to come
and go for many weeks. For three months, each day brought a bewildering
succession of interests and novelties, then as winter advanced I began
to realise that sleeping in Japanese paper houses, with only movable
wooden walls to be run into place round the verandah at night, was much
too chilly for comfort. I therefore from Nagasaki passed on to China,
reaching Hong Kong on Christmas Eve (in time to witness an appalling but
magnificent fire, which consumed whole blocks of houses in the town, the
house in which I was staying a little way up the hill, just overlooking
this scene of awful beauty).
After six months in China (fully described in my _Wanderings in China_,
published by Blackwood), I returned to Japan for three more months,
crammed full of interests. But on my return to Britain I was assured
that Japan had already been over-written—that all travellers spun
Japanese yarns _ad nauseam_, and that I had better not add to the list
of such. So I abstained; and if that was sound advice twenty-four years
ago, surely it must be very much more so now, when the array of
scribblers as well as of earnest writers has multiplied so greatly.
And yet, as I turn over page after page of my diary, which has lain
unopened for so many years, it recalls so much that was fascinating,
that I am sorely tempted to quote a few passages, though it will be
difficult to know how to stop!
CHAPTER XIV
Japanese Burial-grounds—Cremation in Many Lands—Sacred Scripture
Wheels—Buddhist Rosaries.
I have so often found pathetic sketching-grounds in neglected old
churchyards and cemeteries, and moreover have so long felt that the
subject of how to dispose of the dead so as best to combine reverence
for their sacred bodies with due care for the health of the living, is a
matter of the deepest interest, that this natural instinct led me, quite
unintentionally, to derive my very first impressions of Japan from the
cremation-ground near Yokohama—a spot which, I need scarcely say, rarely
attracts any of the many foreign visitors—still fewer of the residents!
During my travels in India, I had had abundant opportunities of
witnessing the process of cremation as practised by the Hindoos, more
especially at Benares, that most holy city of the Brahmins, the bourne
which every pious Hindoo craves to reach in time to die there, on the
banks of the sacred river Ganges. Many a time I have seen the dying laid
down to breathe their last breath alone on the hallowed shore, while
their friends went off to bargain with the neighbouring timber-merchants
for so much wood as their limited means could procure. Often in the case
of the very poor this sum was so small that the humble fire has barely
sufficed to char the body, which was then thrown into the river, and
suffered to float seaward in company with many another, in every stage
of putrefaction, spreading the seed of pestilence on the sultry air, and
poisoning the stream in which myriads hourly bathe, and from which they
drink.
But in the case of the wealthier Hindoo, the funeral-pyre is carefully
built, and when the corpse has been washed in the river, it is swathed
in fair linen, white or scarlet, or still more often the shroud is of
the sacred saffron-colour, on which is showered a handful of vermilion
paint to symbolise the blood of sprinkling, as the atonement for sin.
Sometimes the body is wrapped in cloth of silver or of gold, and is thus
laid upon the funeral-pyre. Dry sweet grass is then laid over it, and
precious anointing oil, which shall make the flame burn more brightly,
and more wood is heaped on, till the pyre is very high. A Brahmin now
brings sacred fire, and gives a lighted torch to the chief mourner, who
bears it thrice, or nine times, sun-wise, round the body. He touches the
lips of the dead with the holy fire, then ignites the pyre. Other
torches are applied simultaneously, and in a very few moments the body
is burnt, though the fire smoulders long. Then the ashes are collected
and sprinkled on the sacred river, which carries them away to the ocean.
Night and day this work goes on without ceasing, and many a weird
funeral-scene I have witnessed, sometimes beneath the burning rays of
the noontide sun, while my house-boat lay moored in midstream to enable
me better to witness all the strange phases of religious and social life
enacted on its shores, and sometimes in the course of our night
journeyings, when the pale moonbeams mingled with the dim blue flames,
casting a lurid light on the withered, witch-like forms of the mourners,
often a group of grey-haired women, whose shrill wails and piercing
cries rang through the air as they circled round the pyre in solemn
procession, suggesting some spirit-dance of death.
With these scenes in my memory, I made some inquiries, on my arrival in
Japan, as to the method of cremation practised there; but, strangely
enough, could obtain no information on the subject. It was not one which
in any way obtruded itself on public notice, and none of my European
friends could tell me anything about it—most declared that the practice
was unknown in Japan. Accident, however, favoured me, for on the third
day after landing at Yokohama, a friend brought his charming ponies and
invited me to accompany him on a ride, in the course of which, looking
down from the high-road where foreigners take their daily drive, I
observed at some little distance what seemed to me to be a cemetery.
For me, the peaceful “God’s-acres” of our own land have always a special
interest, and I soon learnt that those of Japan are invariably worth a
visit, the ancestral graves being ever well cared for, and the
cemeteries generally pretty and picturesque. So this my first discovery
in Japanese burial-grounds was an opportunity not to be neglected. My
companion, though he had often passed by the spot, had never dreamt of
giving it a nearer inspection, but yielded to what seemed to him my very
unaccountable wish to visit it.
So we turned our horses’ heads thither, and soon perceived that it was
indeed a place of graves, full of monuments of forms new to me. One
thing I especially noted was the enduring care of the living for the
dead, for before each grave were placed the three sacred objects
invariably present in Buddhist worship; a vase to contain fresh flowers
(generally, if possible, a bud of the sacred lotus), a candlestick
whereon was set a taper, as an offering to the departed, and a brazier
wherein to burn incense (generally a pot of fragrant ash), in which are
stuck the familiar joss-sticks. There are also saucers of holy water.
In a corner of the cemetery I noticed a very insignificant-looking
thatched house; and a talkative Japanese “Old Mortality” (who seemed to
be the guardian of the place), seeing my glance directed thither,
informed my companion that that was where the dead were burned, and
invited us to enter. Thus unexpectedly was my question answered. We
found a very plain building, with mud walls and earthen floors, along
which were placed six or eight low stone enclosures; in each of these
were heaped dry faggots, on which were laid the dead brought here for
cremation, in square, box-like coffins, the bodies being placed in a
sitting attitude.
At the moment when we entered, three funeral-pyres were blazing
brightly, and though the bodies could not have been half-consumed, there
was scarcely any perceptible odour, even in this primitive building
without special chimneys, certainly nothing comparable to that in many
an English kitchen.
Two semi-nude attendants watched by the bodies, and would remain on duty
for six or eight hours, till the fire had burnt itself out, leaving no
human fragment uncalcined. Then, when nothing remained but pure white
ashes, they would carefully collect these, to be handed over to the
relatives, who on the morrow would bring a simple urn of red earthenware
to receive these cleanly remains, which would then be interred with all
due honour, with or without further religious service, according to the
inclination of the survivors.
One feature of the graves in this cremation-cemetery which struck my
companion as unusual was the fact that each grave was marked by a
cluster of flat, wooden, sword-shaped sticks, each bearing an
inscription. These are placed on the grave one at a time at intervals on
certain days after burial. On some graves these inscribed sticks were so
very much larger than on the others, that we inquired the reason, and
were told that they marked the graves of very wealthy citizens. The
highest of all, which attained to the dignity of a large post, proved to
be that of the chief scavenger of the town!
“Old Mortality” informed us that of the bodies brought to this
particular cemetery, only about one-third were interred without
cremation; that it was a matter of personal choice, but that Buddhists
of the Monto or Shin-shiû, i.e. reformed sect, were almost invariably
cremated, as also those of the Jodo, Hokke and Zenshu sects. I
recollected that in Ceylon this most honourable disposal of the dead was
reserved only for Buddhist priests, and I afterwards discovered the same
fact at some of the Buddhist monasteries I visited in China.
A very few days later, on arriving in Tokio and driving through one of
its suburbs, my attention was arrested by a group of peculiarly-shaped
tall chimneys, very wide at the base, and ending in a narrow mouth, so
strangely suggestive of old sketching-days in Kent, that the idea of the
familiar farm “oast-house” at once presented itself. On inquiry, I
learnt that this was one of the city crematories, of which there are
about half-a-dozen scattered over the principal suburbs of the vast
city. Supposing that in the great capital the process of cremation might
be performed more ceremoniously and scientifically than in the country
cemetery which I had previously visited, I determined to inspect this
also. But in the multitude of more attractive interests, I never found
time to do so.
Soon afterwards, however, my friend Miss Bird (now Mrs. Bishop) visited
a similar establishment in the same neighbourhood; she said it was only
after prolonged inquiry that she succeeded in learning its locality. She
found the same perfect simplicity in all details. The great chimneys
form the only material difference, their object, of course, being to
convey any unpleasant fumes to such a height as to ensure no nuisance
being created in the neighbourhood. Not only is this desirable result
secured, but even within the premises there is nothing in the least
noxious or disgusting. Miss Bird said that, although thirteen bodies had
been consumed in the burning-house a few hours before her visit, and a
considerable number of bodies were awaiting cremation (those of the
wealthier classes being coffined in oblong pine chests, and those of the
very poor in tubs of pine, hooped with bamboo), there was not the
slightest odour in or about the building, and her interpreter informed
her that the people living near never experience the least annoyance,
even while the process is going on.
The only difference between this city crematory and the burning-house in
the rural cemetery was that the highroofed mud building was divided into
four rooms, the smallest of which was reserved for such wealthy persons
as preferred to have their dead cremated apart in solitary state, for
which privilege they pay five dollars (about one pound), whereas
ordinary mortals are disposed of in the common room for the modest sum
of something under four shillings. One shilling’s worth of fuel is the
average consumption required for each body.
Granite supports are laid in pairs all along the earthen floor, and on
these, coffin-chests are placed at 8 P.M., when the well-dried faggots
beneath them are kindled. The fires are replenished from time to time,
and at 6 A.M. the man in charge goes round the building, and from each
hearth collects and stores in a separate urn the handful of ashes which
alone remains. After the religious service in the house, the further
attendance of the Buddhist priests is optional, but in many cases they
return on the morrow to officiate at the interment of the ashes.
Having noticed the simplicity, the cleanliness, and the exceeding
cheapness of this method of honourably consigning “ashes to ashes,” I
confess to a feeling of wonder when, on returning to Britain in 1880, I
heard howls of indignation raised at the bare suggestion that we should
literally carry into practice those oft-repeated but utterly meaningless
words. Men and women who devoutly believe that the noble army of martyrs
has been largely recruited from the stake, and that multitudes of
ransomed souls have been wafted on the smoke of their own burnt
sacrifice to His presence, “Who maketh the flaming fire His minister,”
nevertheless deemed that it might be irreverent for us thus to deal with
Christian bodies which are to be interred “in sure and certain hope” of
resurrection.
They did not venture to suggest that the martyrs will suffer in future
because their ashes were sprinkled to the four winds; but religion,
superstition, and sentiment were all arrayed to decry the impious idea
of reviving in Britain this “cleanly custom” of our Pagan ancestors—a
custom which is said to have been retained by the Celts of Ireland long
after the introduction of Christianity.
This indignation was stirred up, because just at that time some of our
leading scientists began to call attention to the advantages of
cremation, and some of the many dangers of earth-burial in preserving
bacteria and microbes, which might at any time, even after three hundred
years, be turned up to reproduce horrible diseases in a new generation.
I ventured to add my testimony in the form of a paper called “De
Mortuis,” which appeared in the _Contemporary Review_ for June 1883, in
which I said: “I think there can be no doubt that ere long common-sense
will carry the day in this matter, and that Britain will learn from
Japan the wisdom of allowing her children the option of disposing of
their dead in such manner as each may prefer.” So it was pleasant to
read in a leading article in _The Scotsman_ that the article “De
Mortuis” had awakened a very general interest, and brought to the
surface much of that undercurrent of rational thought on the subject
which has been for some time steadily growing in volume.
In the following year Mr. Justice Stephen, having decided that cremation
was not contrary to law, and Sir Spencer Wells having stated that by
earth-burial it takes twenty years for a human body to be resolved into
exactly the same original elements as it attains in six hours by the
action of fire, and that consequently in and around London there are
always two millions of dead bodies, decomposing in the midst of a
population of four millions of living persons, it was formally proposed
to erect a crematorium at Ilford.
On 1st April 1884 there was a very interesting debate on the subject in
the House of Commons, in which it was stated that in the previous month
four bodies had been publicly cremated in England. Brave pioneers!
In January 1885 advertisements appeared in public papers that
arrangements were now completed for the use of the crematorium of the
Cremation Society of England, and by 1900 the “cleanly custom” had
become a recognised institution.
As regards funeral processions, which figure so prominently in my
Chinese diaries, I saw very few in Japan, although so frequently
sketching in picturesque cemeteries. I remember one on the holy Mount
Oyama, wearily toiling up the long stairs to one of the pretty
burial-grounds near the higher temples. The chief mourners were dressed
in white, but the majority of those following wore their usual blue
garments, blue being accounted mourning. At the head of the procession a
priest bore the sacred tablet, on which was inscribed the new name of
the deceased—the _kaimiyo_, or name given by the priests immediately
after death, and by which the spirit will be known in the spirit-world.
After the tablet came a company of priests endeavouring to intone
prayers as well as they could on such a steep ascent, and next came the
square coffin, covered with a white pall, and followed by the nearest
relations of the dead man.
One curious ceremony connected with funerals in Japan is that of
sprinkling salt on the threshold of the house whence the dead has been
carried, a custom which seems to me akin to that of the Egyptian women,
who sprinkle salt on their floor in the name of God, in order to prevent
evil spirits from entering their dwelling; or, it may have something in
common with the old Scottish superstition of throwing a handful of salt
after a man appointed to a new position in life, to bring him luck. As
we throw salt over the shoulder to avert a quarrel, so in Japan a little
is thrown into the fire to avert family discord.
Another matter in which I have been deeply interested ever since my
travels in the Himalayas, is worshipping by machinery; and my “hunter’s
instinct” led me very soon after arriving in Tokio to discover for
myself the existence of an exceedingly handsome rotating
scripture-wheel, exactly corresponding to the prayer-wheels of Thibet.
There “the six-syllabled charm,” or ascription of praise “to the most
Holy Jewel, the Lotus” _i.e._ (Buddha) is inscribed many thousand times
on strips of cloth or papyrus, and is enclosed in a cylinder of metal,
whereon the same mystic words are inscribed in embossed characters.
These are neat little cylinders, or prayer-wheels, which the devout
carry in their hands, and turn mechanically as they walk, and there are
huge barrels, like enormous vats, which are made to rotate by working a
crank; these are co-operative devotion stores, available for the whole
village, for each rotation gives the person turning the full merit of
having actually uttered each several prayer or praise in that huge
storehouse, so that any amount of merit may be accumulated in a very
short time.[58]
Having been immensely interested in these Thibetan wheels, or rather
barrels of praise, and having vainly sought for any trace of any such in
Buddhist Ceylon, either in the monasteries or in the ancient cities, one
of my first cares on reaching Japan was to learn whether anything of the
sort was to be found in its Buddhist temples. I was assured by several
gentlemen, well versed in most matters having reference to Japanese
manners and customs, that nothing of the sort existed. I, however,
determined to examine for myself so far as might be possible, and
(finding how many of the minor ecclesiastical buildings of the Buddhist
shrines have been suffered to fall into disrepair since the Mikado’s
government decided in favour of the Shinto religion, and has confiscated
so large a proportion of the Buddhist revenues), I quietly went about,
peeping into many neglected chapels and outhouses, where the richly gilt
and coloured carvings, scarcely to be discerned through the thick layers
of dust and cobwebs, told of the falling off of once devout worshippers.
At beautiful Asakusa my quest was first rewarded. Within the temple
grounds stands a very handsome five-storied pagoda of carved wood,
painted deep red, and with deep projecting roofs—very picturesque. That
naturally drew me thither.
Very near this tall, quaint building stands a small neglected temple,
with nothing externally attractive to invite the inspection of the
foreigner, and the windows are so closely barred that little can be
discerned by peering through them. That little, however, proved to me
that this small temple had been built solely to contain one large
object, so strongly suggestive, both in form and size, of a great
Thibetan prayer-wheel, that I felt convinced that I had found the object
of my search. After considerable delay, a very courteous young priest
procured the key, opened the great door, and revealed a most beautiful
specimen of what I must call a scripture-wheel or barrel, as instead of
being full of thousands of copies of the short Thibetan charm, it is an
ecclesiastical bookcase, wherein are stored the rolled scrolls of the
Buddhist canon, arranged in upright order.
An inscription over the entrance states that as the Buddhist sacred
books number 6771 volumes, no one person can read them all; but by
turning this bookcase containing them three times, he will secure the
same degree of merit as if he had read them all; and also secure long
life, prosperity, and immunity from misfortunes.
[Illustration:
SCRIPTURE WHEEL.
]
I think this bookcase is hexagonal, and the handsome panels form six
doors for the different compartments, wherein the treasured scrolls are
securely locked, which, however, no wise lessens the merit acquired by
the devout, who (by the aid of spikes projecting from the base as from a
capstan) cause the heavy machine to revolve sun-wise on its own axis. By
observing this course, the scrolls (which of course, like all Oriental
books, are inscribed from the left-hand corner to the right) pass in
correct order before the person turning, and thus, though his mortal eye
does not even see these sacred books, he is credited with the merit of
having recited the whole.
The actual cylinder is encompassed with small slender pillars,
supporting a beautiful projecting canopy of handsomely carved wood,
richly lacquered. The base narrows considerably, and rests on a stone
pedestal of sculptured lotus-leaves—the invariable symbol round the
throne of Buddha—“The Jewel on the Lotus.”
The whole machine is about twelve feet in height and ten in diameter—a
resplendent erection of the richest scarlet, black, and gold lacquer. It
really seemed quite a pity that such a very handsome piece of furniture
should be left to decay, but its day is past, and evidently this method
of “turning the wheel of the law” has lost favour in Japan.
The temple doors being unlocked, a few of the many idlers came in,
chiefly to see what we were doing, and some gave the wheel a turn,
apparently as an excuse for having come in, but evidently without one
grain of religious feeling connected with it; even the young priest in
charge of the place showed us the wheel as if it were some curious relic
of an obsolete ignorance—the same sort of feeling with which the young
sportsman, proud of his breech-loading rifle, looks at the old
muzzle-loader with which his father was so well satisfied.
On our asking him to show us how it was made to revolve, he proceeded
carelessly to turn it _widdershins_,[59] _i.e._ against the course of
the sun. This was a great shock to my carefully cultivated prejudices
and preconceived ideas, acquired in many lands, both east and west, but
especially remembering how exceeding careful the Buddhists of Thibet are
concerning the direction in which their prayer-wheels are turned, or
their sacred terraces walked round; so, when a senior priest came in, my
companion, a perfect Japanese scholar, questioned him on the subject. He
admitted that it was against all rule, and, turning to his subordinate,
remarked: “Well! you are a pretty fellow, to go and turn the wheel the
wrong way!” But they both laughed, and did not really care a bit.
For public opinion in Japan changes with amazing rapidity, and it is
evident that the scripture-wheel, which the last generation turned in
solemn earnest, is now looked upon as a mediæval oddity, only suitable
for an antiquarian museum. Young Japan has not only lost faith in the
merit to be acquired by twirling a bookcase, but is ready to cavil at
the holy books themselves, and eagerly welcomes every rationalistic work
with which his new foreign friends are only too ready to flood the land.
Among the very numerous interests at Asakusa is a shrine to Ji-zo, the
protector of little children. Below his image are three prayer-wheels
which do not contain prayers, but turning them emphasises the prayers
offered by the worshipper.
The scripture-wheel of Japan being a subject which apparently has (or
had at that time) attracted little attention, I think I may as well
bring together the results of my own subsequent observations.
Having found one great wheel or barrel in connection with the temple at
Asakusa, and thus satisfactorily proved the existence in Japan of this
singular instrument of devotion, I continued my researches with renewed
interest, and so explored many temples not often visited by foreigners.
I was one day attracted by the pleasant shady grounds of an old temple
near the Saido Bashi at Tokio. The whole place was neglected and
ruinous—only one poor old priest, as dilapidated as the buildings
themselves, remained in charge of a temple whose congregation had all
melted away. But in a small outlying chapel I discovered a large
scripture-wheel. Worshippers there were none, and the wheel was fast
going to decay. There is also one at the Higashi Hon-gwan-ji temple,
where it is equally neglected.
A fourth and very handsome wheel, resembling in general form the first I
had seen, occupies a small temple in the beautiful grounds of the temple
of Ikegami, which stands on a wooded hill a few miles from the city of
Tokio—very easy of access. This, too, is a huge barrel, standing
upright, and turning on a pivot by means of long spokes projecting as
from the axle of a wheel. Though very handsome in its simplicity, this
wheel is not gorgeously lacquered, but of plain, uncoloured wood (which
is almost as highly esteemed as lacquer), and its sacred books are in
the form of stitched pamphlets, arranged in a multitude of small
drawers.
I found another very handsome “circulating library” in the grounds of
the Fuji Sawa temple, near the holy isle of Enoshima. This is a popular
temple, which, like that of Asakusa, is crowded with worshippers. But
the great wheel (which, as usual, occupies a chapel apart) was utterly
neglected, except by such Japanese as came to watch me drawing it. For
several days I occupied rooms at a charming tea-house overlooking those
temple grounds, and I often watched the picturesque groups of pilgrims
and other devout persons passing in and out, but I rarely saw any one
approach the wheel, and of those who did so, few indeed ever gave it a
turn; and these showed small signs of devotion.
In fact, of all whom I observed turning the wheel in various parts of
the country, I only noticed one man who appeared to be doing it in
earnest; he in very truth was working out a solemn task with resolute
purpose—a weary man and heavy laden—apparently too abstracted to
remember that he already bore a somewhat weighty burden fastened to his
shoulders, and was too much absorbed to remember to lay it down before
he began the hard labour of turning the heavy wheel. I observed, too,
that in this case the priests seemed quite aware that they had found a
true believer, and they affected the greatest solemnity, taking care,
also, that he should show his faith by the amount of his offerings.
Having now ample proof that the “rotatory cylinder” has held a
well-established position in old Japan, I naturally looked for it at all
the principal temples. Before visiting the beautiful shrines of Nikko
(where the loveliest Imperial tombs and temples are cradled in the most
exquisite scenery), I came on a startling statement concerning how many
thousand times the assembled priests had recited the whole Buddhist
canon in the course of a great festival. The statement excited no
comment, and was apparently accepted as a poetic fiction, but in the
light of the helpful wheel, it seemed to me all plain. So on reaching
the lovely temple grounds I eagerly looked out for this aid to the task
of vain repetitions.
Climbing a succession of long flights of steep stone stairs, and passing
by a tall red pagoda with the usual series of dark projecting roof, I
reached a large open court, surrounded by many buildings for sacred
uses, one of which precisely resembled those in which I had already
found the scripture-wheels. Peering in through the gilded fretwork which
acted the part of windows, I could faintly discern a massive object,
resplendent in scarlet and gold lacquer.
[Illustration:
_C. F. Gordon Cumming._
SHRINE CONTAINING THE SCRIPTURE WHEEL AT NIKKO.
]
Being now convinced that I had solved the mystery of those many thousand
repetitions of the sacred canon, I asked to have the door opened; after
some delay the priest was found who had charge of the key; and sure
enough THERE WAS THE WHEEL! a most gorgeous piece of lacquer work in
richest colours, resting on a stone pedestal of lotus-leaves, and
containing the holy books in the form of upright scrolls. The priest, as
usual, did the honours most courteously, but without affecting a
particle of reverence for this labour-saving apparatus. Evidently this
phase of superstition had lost its hold on the people, and the priests
make no effort to retain a form which they, too, have discovered to be
but a hollow sham.
In the same court there is a very handsome large bronze candelabra,
enclosed in a great bronze lantern which stands beneath stately
cryptomeria trees, and is only protected by a light ornamental roof,
supported by carved stone pillars. In general form it resembles a
scripture-wheel, and revolves on its own axis, so many of the pilgrims
give it a sun-wise turn, though apparently only as a matter of form.
Here, too, I noticed the wheel in its simplest form, as the symbolic
decoration on the bronze gateways leading to the magnificent tomb of one
of the Shoguns.
My next expedition was to Kyôto, the ancient capital of the Mikados—a
city crowded with fine old temples. The very first of these which I
entered was one called Choin, to which I was attracted by the beautiful
tone of its great bell. After lingering for a while in the great temple,
where a multitude of priests were chanting “_Namu Amida Butzu_,” “Save
us, O Buddha!” I passed on to examine the other buildings, and the very
next I entered—deserted and silent—contained a cylinder or wheel as
large as that at Nikko, and of brightly coloured lacquer, but divided
into a multitude of small drawers, ticketed, not with the names of the
Buddhist scriptures, but with such words as “water,” “fortune,” “fire.”
This wheel does not rest on the usual stone lotus blossom, but on a
broad base, the lower part of which is decorated with the images of
divers gods or saints.
I then passed on to the Honguangi, two huge Buddhist temples in another
part of the city. Here I found another large scripture-wheel, similar to
that at Choin.
A few days later, I was on the shores of beautiful Lake Biwa, which lies
embosomed in mountains, in whose green, richly wooded valleys, as well
as on many rocky ridges, cluster temples great and small. Of course I
could only indulge in a cursory glance at a very few of these, so have
no idea what antiquarian treasures they may contain. We halted at the
village of Midera, where some very old Shinto nuns, dressed entirely in
white, came and gazed curiously at me, as I doubtless did at them. In
the temple here I found a very large octagonal scripture-wheel, with
fifty-one small drawers in each of the eight sides. It was the first I
had seen of this form.
Passing on to Osaka, I noticed large scripture-wheels at several
temples, amongst others, at the beautiful eastern and western Honguangi
temples, and also beside the five-storied pagoda of Tenoji. But all of
these are now disused.
On the gateway of Tenoji, and also at the Temple of the Moon, on the
summit of a mountain near Kobe, I saw several small metal wheels (of the
ordinary form—not barrels) let into the portal, as if inviting all
comers to give them a twirl. At Ishiyamadera, on Lake Biwa, I saw
similar little wheels inserted into the wooden pillars of the temple.
These wheels are from one to two feet in diameter, and commonly have
only three spokes, so that they are suggestive of a Manx penny with the
three legs. On each spoke there are several loose rings of metal, which
jingle as the wheel revolves, and so call the attention of the celestial
powers to the worshipper, whose merit depends on the number of the
wheel’s revolutions. Each wheel bears an inscription in the Sanscrit
character. No less than sixteen of these adorn the gateway of the
cemetery of Hakodati, and those who enter give them all a turn—perhaps
on behalf of the dead.
These wheels, which are neither prayer-barrels, nor scripture-barrels,
but simply wheels, seem to carry us back to the origin of this
widely-spread symbol. We know that from time immemorial, a revolving
wheel of light had been accepted as an emblem of the sun-god, a symbol
of which traces have survived, both in Europe and Asia, to the present
century. Thus, till recently—probably to the present time—at the
midsummer eve festival, the villagers of Trier and Konz, on the Moselle,
celebrated the feast of “the fair and shining wheel” (as the sun is
called in the Edda), by carrying a great wheel wrapped in straw to the
top of a hill, where it was set on fire, and made to roll down, flaming
all the way.
In some parts of Scotland, large circular cakes, made very smooth and
flat on the edge, like the tyre of a wheel, were till recently thus
rolled down grassy hills on May morning, the spring festival of the
great wheel of light. And at Ise, in Japan, the most sacred of all the
shrines of the sun-goddess, the simple offerings of the pilgrims are
small circles of straw.
The wheel having been recognised in India both by the aboriginal tribes
and by the Aryan conquerors as an honorific symbol, we can understand
how, according to Buddhist lore, it was foretold at the time of
Gautama’s birth that he would become _either a Buddha_ or _a king of the
wheel_ (Chakravarta Rajah). He seems to have attained both honours, and
by “turning the wheel of law”—that is, by preaching—he is said to
deliver all creatures from the circle (or wheel) of oft-repeated
births—in other words, transmigrations.
Hence on certain very ancient sculptures, A SIMPLE WHEEL APPEARS AS THE
OBJECT OF ADORATION. In the Sanchi Tope, in Bhopal, Central India, and
in the Bilsah Tope (both the work of Buddhists in the first century of
our era), the wheel is shown sometimes surrounded by ministering angels,
sometimes by kneeling figures bringing offerings of garlands. Of later
date, in the Amravati Tope, the wheel is shown supported by kneeling
elephants on the summit of a pillar. Sometimes only a wheel is shown,
overshadowed by the mystic umbrella, symbolic of all honour and power.
Some sculptures, notably those in the caves of Ellora and Ajunta, simply
show the wheel projecting from beneath Buddha’s throne, just as those
which have led me to these remarks project from the gateways in which
they are inserted.
My lamented friend and master in wheel and ark-lore, Mr. William
Simpson, who collected many curious facts bearing on this subject,
discovered a passage in a quaint old French translation of the _Mémoires
of Hiouen Thsang_, the Chinese pilgrim who, recording his travel in
India and notes on its faiths, states that the sacred Mount Méru rests
upon a golden wheel, while the sun and moon revolve around it. Speaking
of the kings of the wheel, he says elsewhere: “_Lorsqu’un de ces rois
Tchakravartius devait monter sur le trône_ UNE GRANDE ROUE PRÉCIEUSE _se
balançait dans les airs, et descendait vers lui_.”
Those who are versed in world-wide symbolism may perchance trace some
connection between the wheels of which Homer sang, “Living wheels,
instinct with spirit, which rolled from place to place around the blest
abodes, self-moved,” and the “living wheels full of eyes” which Ezekiel
beheld in his vision, which appeared moving beside the cherubim,
wheresoever these moved, guarding the holy fire, because the spirit of
life was in them, and the glory of the God of Israel was over them
above. Their likeness was “as if a wheel had been in the midst of a
wheel,” and they were addressed as one, “O Wheel,” or in the margin
“Galgal,” or rolling.[60]
Such similarity of metaphor in the writings of a Chinaman, a Greek, and
a Hebrew are, to say the least of it, remarkable.
The idea of applying the principle of revolution to simplify religious
duties seems to have originated in the feeling that since only the
learned could acquire merit by continually reciting portions of Buddha’s
works, the ignorant and the hard-working were rather unfairly weighted
in life’s heavenward race. Thus it came to be accounted sufficient that
a man should turn over each of the numerous rolled manuscripts
containing the precious precepts; and, considering the multitude of
these voluminous writings, the substitution of this simple process must
have been very consolatory to those concerned.
Max Müller has told us how the original documents of the Buddhist canon
were first found in the monasteries of Nepaul, and soon afterwards
further documents were discovered in Thibet and Mongolia—the Thibetan
canon consisting of two collections, together comprising three hundred
and thirty-three volumes folio! Another collection of the wisdom of
Buddha was brought from Ceylon, covering fourteen thousand palm-leaves,
and written partly in Cingalese and partly in Burmese characters. Nice
light reading! Undoubtedly it must have been a great comfort when
handling these records came to be deemed sufficient.
From turning over these manuscripts by hand to the simple process of
arranging them in a huge cylindrical bookcase, and turning that bodily,
was a very simple and ingenious transition, and thus the first
circulating library came into existence, somewhere about the first
century of our era.
The honour of this invention is generally attributed to Fu Dai-ji
(_i.e._ the priest Fu), who lived about A.D. 500; but, as Fa Hien, a
Chinese pilgrim who visited Thibet in A.D. 400, records having seen this
particular form of turning the wheel of the law practised at Ladak, the
matter seems open to question. But in these Japanese temples a
life-sized image of Fu Dai-ji is invariably represented seated near the
revolving library, and his two sons, Fu Sho and Fu Ken (_i.e._ Fu of the
right hand and Fu of the left hand), stand beside him.
Knowing how many Japanese institutions own a Chinese origin, this is in
no way surprising, but it is remarkable (if the wheel reached Japan
_viâ_ China) that it should apparently have died out in that country.
Certainly I explored a very large number of temples in many Chinese
cities without seeing a sign of anything of the sort till I reached
Peking, and there, by the merest chance, while hunting about in dusty,
neglected corners, I came upon quite a new variety of the old wheels.
Of these the most important instance is at the great Lama temple, which
is the home of one thousand three hundred monks, having a living Buddha
at their head. They are a brotherhood of a singularly unpleasant
type—intensely jealous of foreigners, and so offensive and insolent that
many visitors fail to gain admission, even by the help of liberal
bribery. I owed that privilege to the great influence and strong
determination of Dr. Dudgeon, who escorted me, and whose medical skill
had proved beneficial to the living Buddha and other inmates. With much
difficulty he at last so pacified the rude monks that they allowed us to
inspect all their temples and chapels, and even pointed out some objects
of interest, including a narrow stair by which we might ascend to a
gallery on a level with the head of the huge bronzed image of Buddha.
I then had the pleasure of discovering that from this gallery there is
access to two circular buildings, one on either side, each containing a
large rotating cylinder. Each of these is divided into two hundred and
fifty niches, and every niche contains an image. One turn of these
wheels offers homage simultaneously to all the five hundred disciples of
Buddha.
A few days later, while exploring the ruins of the Emperor’s summer
palace, I came on a cluster of small temples, perched among boulders of
grey rock. The temples, though sadly mutilated, still bore traces of
their former beauty, in the days when they were probably reserved for
the private devotions of the Imperial family. Vast mounds of broken
fragments of brilliantly-coloured tiles told of the departed glory, and
here and there a fine pagoda of porcelain had survived the general
destruction, and roofs of brilliant green porcelain tiles gleamed in the
sunlight.
A small but very beautiful pagoda stood within a temple, on either side
of which were circular buildings containing cylindrical structures
similar to those in the Lama temple, though on a miniature scale. But
every niche was empty, all the images having been extracted either in
the first ruthless pillage by the soldiers of the French and English
armies, or in the subsequent raids of relic-hunters, either Chinese or
foreign.
Knowing of the existence of these two pairs of twin revolving pantheons,
of course, warrants us in assuming that many more exist, which may
reward the search of future travellers.
Furthermore, I am inclined to believe that a similarly concentrated act
of homage to all saints is accomplished by striking certain gigantic
bronze temple-bells, whereon are embossed the images of Buddha’s five
hundred disciples. I saw a particularly fine specimen of such a bell at
an old temple in Ningpo; each of the five hundred figures is in a
different attitude, and the whole is a triumph of casting. I saw other
bells thus adorned with long passages from the sacred books, and each
time they are struck the congregation replies to their solemn boom with
an invocation like a roar, which seems to imply that such bells have a
recognised place in public worship beyond merely summoning the people to
the temple.
As regards revolving libraries, Dr. Edkins, whose acquaintance I had the
pleasure of making at Peking, saw several in various Lama monasteries in
north China. One was at the Ling-yin monastery at Hang-Chow, and at the
Poo-sa-ting pagoda in the Wootai valley he saw one sixty feet in height
and of octagonal form; that monastery had also three hundred revolving
prayer or praise-wheels. In that district there were, when he visited
it, about two thousand Mongol Lamas, and in one of their monasteries (in
which the great monastic kettle is kept ever boiling to supply the
ceaseless demand for tea) he observed a most ingenious arrangement by
which the ascending steam does further duty by turning a praise-wheel
which is suspended from the ceiling.
I myself saw others in the mountain-region above Ningpo, where a
streamlet pouring through the mouth of a sculptured dragon kept up this
ceaseless ascription of praise to Buddha.
And now let me tell you how a worthy old Scottish minister applied the
“turning of the wheel of the law” to his own preaching. He had a large
collection of musty old manuscript sermons, which he stored in a cask.
Every time he had occasion to preach, he avoided the responsibility of
exercising _human_ judgment in his selection by giving the cask a twirl,
and whichever sermon first slipped out was deemed the heaven-selected
discourse most appropriate to the occasion!
I mentioned having seen a very interesting scripture-wheel of uncoloured
wood in one of the temples at Ikegami, where I was shown many strange
temples and shrines. One was full of _ex voto_ pictures of seven female
heads, all said to belong to one serpent (surely a trace of the
seven-headed naga, or serpent, so familiar in Indian mythology). Another
shrine was to a goddess who used to eat children till she was converted
by Buddha, and became their protectress; and yet another shrine,
surrounded by heaps of little stones, tells of a cruel spirit who stops
children on the way to Paradise, and sets them to heap up stones, so
these are offered that the children may be let off.
Crowds of most picturesque people were assembling to commemorate the
sanctity of Nicheren, founder of a Buddhist sect, in whose temple we
found a great array of priests in many-coloured robes and
stoles—primrose, straw-colour, sky-blue, and purple—awaiting their high
priest, who shortly appeared, under a large scarlet umbrella of honour,
carried by attendants, and followed by two black-robed priests. The high
altar was loaded with special offerings, including five brass lamps. We
followed the worshippers to his tomb in the fir wood (a most picturesque
scene), where his ashes and one tooth received due homage.
But the fascination of such days in Japan lies in the people
themselves—all so gay and apparently happy, so thoroughly enjoying their
holiday—and all the oddities which are offered for sale on these
occasions. Most of the booths at this particular fair were for the sale
of beautifully made ornamental straw-work, such as baskets and toys,
most ingenious in device and very gay in colour; but the stalls which
interested me most were those exclusively for the sale of rosaries, of
all qualities, to suit all purses, and made of divers kinds of wood and
stone. Those most in request were made of dark polished wood, but there
were some of sandal-wood, the principal beads being of polished agate or
crystal. There was quite a brisk trade doing in these “aids to
devotion,” which I noticed in the hands of rich and poor, young and old,
but chiefly of devout women and aged persons.
The Japanese Buddhists of the sect of Nicheren, whose festival was being
celebrated, carry rosaries numbering one hundred and eight beads; these
represent one hundred and eight holy persons—four beads standing for the
great saints, while two still larger represent the sun-goddess and
moon-god, or the dual principle in nature, while _two short pendant
strings of five beads apiece recall the ten Buddhist commandments_ or
precepts.
Each sect seems to affect a different number of beads, and a different
arrangement. I possess rosaries purchased in various parts of Japan and
China, and all are different. One has two hundred and sixteen wooden
beads, in sets of twelve, separated by sixteen crystal balls of diverse
colours, and two very large crystals. There are two pendants with six
beads on each, and one connecting bead. Another of these Japanese
rosaries consists of a hundred and twelve beads, divided into two equal
parts by two large beads. From one end hang four pendant strings of five
beads, at the other end are two sets of five and one of ten small beads.
I have also a very handsome rosary that belonged to a Canton mandarin.
It numbers a hundred and eight beads, divided by four large balls of
green jade into four divisions of twenty-seven beads. From one end hang
four sets of five, from the other two sets of five coral-beads. A
medallion and a drop of jade complete the rosary. I was told that these
are now worn by Chinese mandarins solely as ornaments, but there can be
no doubt of their original use.
These oriental rosaries are sometimes of exceeding value, rubies,
emeralds, and other precious stones being thus utilised by wealthy men.
Thus Toderini speaks of “Le Tespih, qui est un chapelet, composé de 99
petites boules d’agathe, de jaspe, d’ambre, de corail, ou d’autre
matière précieuse. J’en ai vu un superbe au Seigneur Terpos: il était de
belles et grosses perles, parfaites et égales, _estimées_ trente mille
piastres.”[61]
I cannot lay claim to have seen any so valuable as this, but some of
those carried by Japanese ladies of high rank are exceedingly handsome.
I noticed one in the hands of a lady, who, attended by her maid, was
about to worship at the shrine of Nicheren. It was so rich, both in
material and workmanship, that it evidently represented the family
diamonds. The owner seemed gratified at my evident admiration, and
handed it to me for closer inspection. Of course we met and parted with
a profusion of low bows.[62]
I observe that the Buddhists do not tell or count their beads, but rub
them between their hands all the time they are reciting their prayers,
and then they twist the rosary so as to take the form of a Chinese
character which signifies success, and this they reverently kiss. The
silken cord on which the beads are strung is sometimes tied so as to
assume the same fortunate shape.
With regard to the number of beads on the rosaries in use among various
branches of the Christian Church, while the ordinary number seems to be
a hundred and fifty plus fifteen, I have one of only forty-five beads,
divided into six sets of seven and one of three beads, connected by
silver medallions of the crucifixion and of the Blessed Virgin, with
inscription in German.
The Coptic Christians still further curtail their devotions, the Coptic
rosary numbering only forty-one beads.
I observe that the Buddhists make use of another numerical aid to
devotion, which is virtually a form of rosary. Much merit may be
accumulated by making numerous circuits round relic-shrines and temples,
and there are certain favoured spots round which it is desirable to walk
one hundred times. While performing this action, each person carries in
his hand a bunch of one hundred short bits of string, which he tells off
one by one while working out the full number of meritorious turns!
CHAPTER XV
Mythological Plays—Japanese Theatres—The Forty-seven Rônins—Flower
Festivals.
Amongst the most interesting of my early experiences in Japan were
visits to two varieties of theatres, first to a mythological drama
called the Nô, in connection with a military religious festival at the
Imperial or Shinto temple, in memory of the soldiers who were killed in
quelling the Satsuma rebellion. First the troops, and then what appeared
an interminable procession of police, all in foreign uniform, marched
by, paused a moment before the temple, and passed on.
(The sum and substance of Shinto worship is simply homage to all
ancestors, and to the Emperor in particular in the person of his great
ancestress, the sun-goddess, who is represented by a circular mirror of
polished metal, and by one or more beautiful globes of pure crystal laid
on the altar. Straw ropes, and curiously cut out strips of white paper
called _gohei_, and the peculiar sort of gateway called _torii_, are the
only other symbols in this cold system. The temples are all of plain,
uncoloured wood, with thatched roof of a simple form intended to
represent a tent.)
(Including small shrines in the forests, there are said to be
ninety-eight thousand Shinto temples in Japan; but this worship of their
ancestors does not lessen the homage done to thousands of revered things
and persons, who are figuratively described as “the eight hundred
myriads of celestial gods, the eight hundred myriads of terrestrial
gods, and the fifteen hundred myriads of gods to whom are consecrated
temples in all places of the Great Land of Eight Islands.”)
From the temple we adjourned to the open space facing the theatre,
where, under a grilling sun, a Nô play was being acted gratis for the
military. We were told that it was a drama of the fifteenth century, all
about semi-deified heroes. We endured it as long as possible, but were
not sorry when we could courteously retire to luncheon.
Hitherto these Nô have been the only plays at which nobles and ladies
might be present, the ordinary drama being considered essentially the
amusement of the people. But the Nô being religious plays, all of a
mythological character, have always been highly esteemed, and nobles of
the highest rank built theatres within their own palaces, where they
themselves were the actors in these classical operas, which represent
such scenes as the sun-goddess being lured from her cave, or the various
appearances of the gods in human form. Doubtless to the educated
Japanese these plays are as attractive as severely classical music is to
the true musician among ourselves, but to the uninitiated they certainly
appear exceedingly dull.
I am told that many of these are beautiful ancient poems, and as such
are familiar to the audience, but to a foreigner, even if he be a
classical student, they are very difficult reading, and when delivered
on the stage in a shrill, high pitched and very nasal intonation, with
an accompaniment of many discordant classical instruments, they are
positively unintelligible.
The acting is at once stilted and grotesque, the actors being disguised
by hideous wigs and masks of lacquered wood. The latter are venerable
relics which have been preserved for many generations, each in its own
silken cover, and the dresses are old court-robes of richest gold and
silver embroidered silk brocade.
I found the ordinary theatre very much more interesting just for once.
Going to the play in Japan is a very serious matter, as the performance
begins at 6 or 7 A.M., and continues till 6 or 7 P.M. So the women and
children are awake half the night dressing their hair, and painting and
otherwise gilding the lily. Long before dawn they must breakfast in
order to reach the theatre in time to see the quaint old dances, which
are performed just before sunrise, and represent strange scenes in the
lives of the gods and heroes, ogres and apes.
At the earliest glimmer of day the gay theatre street is thronged with
crowds of pleasure-seekers from town and country, eager to miss no
fragment of the play. The _mis-en-scène_ is excellent; appropriate
scenery and beautiful dresses, and to avoid long pauses, the stage
itself revolves, and you watch a scene of battle and murder disappear,
to be replaced on the instant by some elaborate court pageant.
This is a great advance on the early form of the drama, as I have seen
it performed by Tamil actors at Trincomalee, where a circular stage of
the rudest description was erected in the centre of a grassy plain; we,
the spectators, sat all round, and the magnificently dressed actors
played each scene four times over, that each section of their audience
might have a good view.
That primitive theatre on the grass was recalled to my mind on being
told that the Japanese name for the theatres is Shiba-i, which means
“the turf-plot,” and recalls the early days when religious dances and
dramas were first invented and performed on the smooth grass before the
temples.
There are no actresses in China or Japan; all female parts are taken by
men, excellently got up, and their parts are often admirably rendered. A
first-rate male actress is a highly popular person, and receives such
ovations as might rejoice the _prima-donna_ of our own stage; but to our
ears their painfully artificial elocution, and the shrill falsetto voice
which they assume, is very jarring, especially as there is the
accompaniment of a lugubrious and doleful orchestra. But to me all
Japanese music is trying—you never hear a deep chest-note, only squeaky
throat-sounds, the more tremulous the better, and the accompaniments are
twanging and discordant.
The theatre street is very conspicuous, all the neighbouring houses
being gay with red paper lanterns at nights, and by day tall banners
with inscriptions on bright ground flutter from bamboos higher than the
roof. The interior of the building has a gallery, and what we should
call the pit is divided into square boxes, each to hold a family party
sitting on the matted floor. There they can have their tiny _hibachi_,
or charcoal stove, and smoke, or drink tea, and eat cakes. Those who
really want their money’s worth stay the whole day, and have their three
meals and _entre-mets_ sent in from the tea-houses all round, so there
is incessant carrying of tea-pots and food-trays, fire-boxes and pipes.
The friend who engaged a box for me had kindly sent his servant and
family to occupy it since early morning, for fear of any mistake. They
sat on the mats till our arrival, when chairs were brought in for us. At
the outer door lay a huge pile of sandals and clogs, and the people hunt
out their own each time they go in or out.
As we entered, a nice old lady, bent double, was being helped out; her
son took her on his back and carried her downstairs. There were a number
of very pretty girls in the house, with well-brushed hair, but all very
quietly dressed, chiefly in grey or dove-coloured robes, with only a
touch of bright colour at the open neck and sash, so that with no light
save that of the grey autumn afternoon, the theatre looked very dingy
till about 5 P.M., when two chandeliers were lighted.
We arrived at the middle of the great piece, when a beautiful girl was
pleading for her father’s life before a Buddhist priest, who related his
own love-story ere he became a priest. Then the prisoners were
sentenced—their arms bound, and they were led out to execution. The
curtain fell, and the audience feasted on tiny dainties and sips of tea
or _saki_.
Then, lest people should weary of one story going on so long without a
break, a new short play in two acts was produced. A Daimio has adopted
the child of a previous Mikado. On the reigning Mikado hearing of this,
he sends a messenger to demand the boy’s head. (Bitter anguish of all
concerned.) The Daimio’s chief retainer and his wife, in the intensity
of their loyalty, resolve to give the head of their own beloved son, a
charming, winsome, coaxing child, who quite enters into the situation,
comforts his parents, tells them how glad he is to be able to make them
an offering of his head. (Applause tremendous!) The father then tries to
cut off the head of his own boy, but cannot. (Agony of all—this was very
fine acting.) Finally the head is brought in in a wooden-box and
presented to the messenger, who, seeing it, suspects the fraud. Then the
extraordinary couple produce the real prince as their own child, and of
course he is recognised, but the messenger greatly applauds their
loyalty, and gives a receipt as if for the prince’s head.
Again the curtain falls, and the first play is resumed in scenes
apparently quite unconnected. _Scene_—A tea-house beside _toriis_
leading to a Shinto temple. An old man, poor and weary, hobbles in,
leaning on a little child, and faints from exhaustion. He had been
robbed by the man who had set up this tea-house with ill-gotten wealth.
Then the whole stage revolved on a pivot, at once displaying a new
scene. Coolies getting rather drunk at a saki-shop. Again the whole
stage revolved, showing another scene, and so on till evening.
Funny little imps clothed in black, even their faces being veiled in
black crape, are supposed to be invisible, and creep about changing the
stage-furniture, or holding a curtain before dead men to enable them to
slip away. At night they hold lights before the faces of the principal
actors that all may see their play of feature. These are conventionally
got up, the eyes of nobles and high-caste ladies being painted to look
long (the much-admired almond-shape), and as if eyes and eye-brows
slanted up from nose to temple. The scenery is throughout of the very
simplest, but it answers its purpose well.
I must not allow myself even a brief summary of our daily enchanting
expeditions, exploring curio-shops and temples, cemeteries and gardens,
always under most able guidance of various very kind, experienced
residents. I can only say they were bewildering in their variety, their
beauty, and their interest. We lingered long in many gorgeous Buddhist
temples, and specially noted how here (as wherever else I have come
across modern Buddhism) it incorporates every conceivable variety of
gods and goddesses, as well as rendering divine honour to Buddha
himself, which was the last thing that good teacher of unaided
perfection ever desired.
Specially attractive to the people is the image of Binzuro, the kind god
of medicine. All who are afflicted with any sort of pain come and rub
the seat of suffering on the image, and then rub their own poor body.
The head, feet, and stomach of the image at Asakusa, originally coated
with brown lacquer, have been so persistently rubbed that much of the
bare wood is now exposed. Another very popular idol is Daikoku, the god
of wealth, a most jovial-looking person, one of the seven gods of
good-fortune. Naturally he is for ever receiving incense and offerings,
and his image has a place in almost all domestic shrines.
Asakusa is dedicated to Kwan-non, the kind thousand-armed goddess of
mercy, but she here shares her honours with so many other deities that I
did not realise her individuality till we visited another temple (rather
near Seido, which is a most beautiful old Confucian temple, all in
solemn black and gold lacquer). In that temple a gigantic gilt figure of
the goddess Kwan-non occupies the centre, and along the walls, right up
into the tower, are ranged rows and rows of gilt images of her,
numbering a thousand! All have many arms, and some have several heads
growing out of the original head, because the goddess owns eleven faces
as well as a thousand arms.
Afterwards I saw many of her temples, one of the most remarkable being
at Sanju-San-gen-Do, in Kioto, which is said to contain 33,333 gilt
images of her, but that is counting all the heads. There is one large
sitting figure of her eighteen feet high, and one thousand images, each
five feet high, all carved by celebrated artists in wood, and it is said
that no two images have their arms and the objects held by them arranged
alike!
(Just before visiting that wonderful homage to “mercy,” I had halted to
sketch a quaint relic-shrine on a mound called Mimi-dzuka, in which were
buried five thousand pairs of ears cut from the heads of the Koreans
slain by the Japanese in the year 1592, and brought back by the
victorious general to be laid at the feet of the Emperor Hideyoshi!)
Among the endless varieties of quaint shows at Asakusa, one of the most
curious is a representation of many of the most noted miracles wrought
by Kwan-non. Admirably modelled life-sized figures are arranged in
groups, each of which recalls some signal deliverance of her worshippers
in the hour of danger. One poor fellow was assaulted by robbers and
thrown into the river, whence he was happily brought up in a fishermen’s
net, and the presence of a small image of Kwan-non in his long
sleeve-pocket brought him back to life. Another group recalls the reward
of a kindly man who bought a tortoise which was about to be killed and
eaten. He restored it to the waters, and three days later, when his
child fell into the sea, it was saved by the grateful tortoise, who swam
ashore with the little innocent on its back.
Another instance of gratitude for life thus preserved is that of a girl
who saved the life of a crab, and afterwards, when she was in deadly
peril from a snake in human form, a legion of crabs summoned by Kwan-non
came to her rescue, and conquered the monster. Quaintest of all is a
group descriptive of a man enduring torture from headache, to whom it
was miraculously revealed that the root of a tree was growing through
the socket of the eye of the skull which was his in a previous
incarnation. On searching the place indicated, he found the root
splitting the skull, and on clearing it away, the pain subsided.
The temple grounds at Asakusa contain a concentrated essence of
everything most remarkable in the worship and amusements of the
people—it is a daily wonderful fair, and, however often the oldest
resident goes there, he always finds something he had not seen before.
So what would be the good of attempting to describe it?
But there is one oft-told tale which I cannot forbear telling, in case
it may be new to some one, because, although it is almost the first
story impressed on every traveller in Japan, I never in subsequent
wanderings heard any other quite so characteristic of that wonderful old
chivalry which in these aspects has so happily passed away. It is the
story which was told to me in the great cemetery at Sen-gaku-ji, “the
Temple of the Spring,” one corner of which attracts pilgrims from all
parts of Japan, for here are the tombs of the forty-seven Rônins, who,
about two hundred years ago, devoted their lives in the most approved
manner to accomplish vengeance for their dead master. They were the
followers of Takumi-no-Kami, who, under gross provocation, was guilty of
striking Kôtsuké-no-Suké, an officer of the Imperial court, within the
precincts of the palace.
For this offence he was sentenced to perform _hara kiri_—his castle was
confiscated, and his retainers became Rônins (literally wave-men, so
called because, having no master, they are tossed about like waves of a
troubled sea). But forty-seven of these faithful adherents determined to
avenge their master’s death. The story of all they underwent during the
long months of patient waiting while they strove to disarm the
suspicions of Kôtsuké and his followers, forms a long and highly popular
romance, full of details which to us seem scarcely praiseworthy, but
which are strongly characteristic of the strange code of honour of
Japan.
After unheard of sacrifices, their plan ripened, and with careful heed
of every chivalric detail, the forty-seven Rônins surprised the palace
of Kôtsuké, and, after a furious fight, succeeded in reaching his
sleeping-room. They found him hiding in a courtyard, dressed in a white
satin sleeping-robe, and falling on their knees before him, they most
respectfully besought him to perform _hara kiri_ and die the death of a
noble man, their leader offering to act as his second and cut off his
head in due form. But, being a low-minded churl, he could not summon
courage for this manly form of suicide, but crouched trembling before
them. At last, seeing their courtesy was vain, they apologised for the
liberty they were obliged to take, and having slain him, they cut off
his head and placed it in a bucket and departed, carefully extinguishing
all lights, lest perchance a fire might break out and damage innocent
neighbours.
Then they came to the monastery of Sen-ga-kuji, where their lord was
buried. The abbot met them at the gate and led them to the tomb, where
they laid the head as an offering, after they had washed it. Then they
all burned incense, and having presented to the abbot all the money they
had with them, they prayed him to have masses sung for their souls, when
they should have performed _hara kiri_. So, when the sentence of the
Imperial Court was pronounced, these brave men were ready to carry it
out, and having died nobly, they were all buried round the tomb of their
master.
Then the people came to pray at their honoured graves. But one man (who
had mistrusted and insulted one of them during the time when they were
striving to disarm the suspicions of Kôtsuké) was filled with such agony
of remorse that he came to his grave to implore forgiveness, and then
offered atonement by performing _hara kiri_ on the spot. So the pitying
priests buried him with the faithful Rônins, and this is the reason
there are now forty-eight graves, each adorned with its little offerings
of flowers and incense-sticks, oft renewed by pious hands.
In the temple close by, statues of the forty-seven Rônins, carved in
wood and lacquered, are ranged around the gilded image of the Goddess of
Mercy. They are all different, and represent men ranging from sixteen to
seventy years of age. The tattered garments and rusty old armour of the
Rônins are reverently preserved, together with the documents they had
drawn up for their own guidance. The well in which the head was washed
is likewise held in honour.
It does seem a curious anomaly that a nation naturally so warlike as the
Japanese should also be so delightfully simple in their enjoyments.
Surely no other race is so emphatically gifted with the poet-mind of
childhood. Nothing is lost on these imaginative people. The changeful
glories of storm and sunshine, of varying autumn-tints, of pale,
beautiful blossoms, are each embodied poems in which they rejoice, and
which they are for ever seeking to render in words—hence the couplets
and verses inscribed on paper, wood, or stone, whatever material comes
handy to the poet.
To the Japanese people the course of the seasons is marked by the
blossoming of different flowers, and each in turn becomes a reason for
holding festival and making holiday. Scarcely have the snows of January
quite vanished ere the leafless plum-trees are covered with such rich
blossom as might almost be mistaken for a fresh snowfall. Straightway
the citizens make up pleasure-parties and expeditions to the
neighbouring plum-gardens, where beneath the blossoming trees are placed
most inviting raised platforms covered with seats, where they can lounge
to their hearts’ content and compose verses in praise of the spring, the
blue sky, or the plum-blossoms, which verses they then write with a
paint-brush on strips of soft paper, and fasten them to the boughs in
graceful homage. Of course there are the invariable surroundings of
joyous, gaily-dressed children and women of all ages, and pretty little
attendants to keep up the supply of sweetmeats and tea.
Hardly is the plum-blossom festival over, when all the peach trees burst
into flower, and their delicate rose-colour calls for more holidays and
more poems. Next and loveliest of all come the rich masses of double
cherry-blossom, its snowy petals just tipped with pink. This is the
season of seasons, with which none other can compare. The whole city
makes holiday, for even the most poverty-stricken contrive for a while
to forget their cares in such an atmosphere of delight.
There are various gardens specially celebrated for their
cherry-blossoms, and early in April each of these is visited by crowds
of happy people in their gayest dresses. But the concentrated essence of
delight is to be found at Mukojima, on the further bank of Sumidagawa
(which is a river as broad as the Thames at Westminster, and crossed by
about as many bridges). Here there is an avenue two miles long of most
beautiful cherry-trees, beneath which the crowd of poets dream
blissfully and gather their inspiration from ever-falling showers of
pale petals. Then they betake them to one of the pretty garden-houses,
where they gain further inspiration from drinking some decoction
flavoured with cherry-blossom, and under its cheering influence their
poetic thoughts take form, and are committed to paper and then entwined
among the blossoms, as the reverent homage of devoted lovers.
As the twilight deepens, thousands of gay paper lanterns glow among the
foliage, giving a soft, coloured light, and producing a most fairy-like
effect. Feasting of a most æsthetic kind is indulged in, with occasional
accompaniment of strange instruments and songs, and then the happy
holiday-makers return to their pleasure-boats and row homewards in the
clear, beautiful moonlight.
When joyous April gives place to May, and all the cherry-blossoms have
floated away like some dream of ethereal loveliness, then a new
flower-queen reigns for a little season. This time it is the exquisite
lilac wistaria which holds sway over the hearts of the people.[63] It
differs from the wistaria of our gardens in that instead of bearing its
blossoms in short, thick bunches like grapes, these are scattered more
sparsely, and hang in long graceful clusters, some of which actually
exceed a yard in length. Lady Parkes assured me that she had seen some
of these which were about five feet in length! On such clusters as these
each pale lilac blossom shows separately, hence no flower that blows
finds such favour with the artists, whether on paper, porcelain, or
lacquer, as does this beautiful fuji (it bears the same name as the Holy
Mountain).
The fuji plants are trained to grow closely over a roof of trellis-work,
through which the drooping clusters hang in profusion; and beneath this
lovely canopy are set the soft mats which invite all comers to lie in
the pleasant shade and rejoice in the tender golden, green, and lilac
hues of the tremulous leaves and blossoms. I need scarcely say that the
fuji receives its full share of poetic utterances from enthusiastic
admirers, so that by the end of the season there flutter from its boughs
thousands of paper strips or even wooden tablets, most puzzling to the
uninitiated.
The most celebrated wistarias of Tokio are in the grounds of the temple
of Kameido (literally the tortoise-well), where, in addition to such
ecclesiastical sights as the marble ox and the stable containing the
white wooden horses, there is a highly ornamental artificial lake,
spanned by a very curiously curved bridge. A bamboo trellis-work has
been constructed over part of the lake, and the wistaria has been so
trained as completely to cover the framework, whence the long blossoms
droop till they almost touch the heads of the happy groups who establish
themselves on matted floors built out over the lake.
The wistaria is succeeded by gorgeous azaleas, and another flower, which
seems to us far more prosaic, namely, the peony. Certainly peonies as
grown here are magnificent, and inspire many an artistic painting. And
then come the irises, which are cultivated on a very large scale and in
extraordinary profusion. Again the holiday-makers troop forth. This time
their destination is most probably the artificial lakes of Hori Kiri,
where upwards of three hundred varieties of iris are to be seen.
August brings the lemon and rose-coloured lotus-blossoms, with their
great bluish-green leaves rising from the moats and lakes, and November
covers the camelia-trees with exquisite pink and white blossom, turns
the maples vivid scarlet and gold, and is emphatically the month of the
chrysanthemum. The latter has now been brought to such perfection in
Europe that it almost outdoes its Japanese ancestors, whose loveliness
induced the Emperors of Japan to adopt them as the Imperial crest, so
conventionalised that a sixteen-rayed chrysanthemum symbolises the
Rising Sun, that great ancestress from whom the Mikado claims lineal
descent.
Truly fascinating are the chrysanthemum shows of Japan, where throngs of
flower-loving folk of every degree, from the wealthiest down to the very
poorest, assemble to gaze enraptured at these triumphs of nature and
art. November brings weeping skies and cold, biting air in Japan as it
does here, but the holiday-makers find intervening days of radiant
sunlight, when the pretty little maidens and children don their gayest
apparel and go forth to join the cheery sightseers.
Perhaps their way lies by the far-famed wooded hill of Shiba, where each
sportive breeze showers down dainty pink leaves from the tree-camelias,
now laden with lovely pink single blossoms. On they walk merrily, as is
their wont, passing temples and moats, lakes and lilies, till they
reach, as we did, the beautiful park of Yueno, near to which are the
most celebrated of the chrysanthemum gardens.
For Japanese gardeners know better than to bring their treasures to be
all crowded together in scanty space. Each arranges his own little
garden so as to exhibit its produce in the most attractive light, and
truly such triumphs of horticultural art as he has for long months been
patiently preparing could not be exposed to the risks of transportation.
So a visit to the chrysanthemum show of Yueno means visiting at least a
dozen small gardens, each with its special exhibit of Japanese
ingenuity.
In the first place, the laying out of the half or quarter acre is in
itself often a marvel of miniature landscape-gardening, which represents
an infinity of patient toil, were it only in the production of the dwarf
trees—those strangely perfect miniatures—orange and peach trees—even
sturdy-looking, old gnarled oaks, pines, and cedars, whose twisted
boughs are well in keeping with their weather-beaten trunks—trees which
are probably at least thirty years old, though their average height is
barely two feet. These are produced by cutting off the tap-root of the
baby tree, and thereafter perpetually disturbing the soil and nipping
off the suckers and young shoots, so the leaves grow smaller and
smaller, all in proportion.
Such trees, growing in beautiful old bronze or blue porcelain vases, are
generally objects of much admiration; but as November is the
chrysanthemum festival, they are now neglected, and all eyes are riveted
on these kind winter beauties. First rank the magnificent queens of
chrysanthemum society—large, stately blossoms, some so large that when
their long, slender petals are unfurled, they would cover an average
breakfast-plate. Some are white as newly fallen snow, others creamy
saffron, pale yellow, bright gold, salmon-coloured, claret, maroon, deep
red, brown, and many other colours, the most fascinating being those
whose long petals are like reversible ribbons, showing on one side
claret-coloured velvet, on the other old-gold satin.
These receive due meed of loving admiration from a race so passionately
devoted to flowers that I have often watched exceedingly poor men expend
what might apparently have been their last cent on two or three blossoms
to carry back to their humble little home.
But for amusement and special interest, the crowds pass from one to
another of the little gardens which excel in the production of quaint
groups of figures all clothed in garments of growing flowers. These tiny
gardens are scattered all about in out-of-the-way corners, where,
assuredly, we could never have found them without the aid of sympathetic
jinricksha-men, keenly interested in our sight-seeing, who ran us
through an intricate labyrinth of narrow lanes and byways, passing on
from one garden to another, at each of which we paid some infinitesimal
coin, and joined the stream of delighted spectators, old and young.
Each gardener has devoted his whole energies to the production of one
complete scene, comprising men and women, fish, animals, houses—true
_tableaux vivants_ of which the silent, patient flowers are the life.
Apparently each scene is represented by a light wire framework, within
which the plants are growing, and in most perfect health, but trained
with such infinite care that to the eye of the spectator each presents
outside the wirework a compact mass, either of tiny blossoms or of
foliage. Thus patches of the richest colour, varied with sober green,
are produced wherever they are required, and so the most elaborate
scenes are developed. One gardener shows us a group of figures sitting
beside tiny tables, tea-drinking. Another has a music-party; a third, of
a festive turn of mind (or possibly a blue-ribbon man), has a
drinking-scene suggestive of “wine in, wit out.” Now we come to an
Arcadian scene, with a romantic couple on a pretty, high-arched bridge,
and beyond them is a tall pagoda, with walls of white chrysanthemums and
roofs of green, but all the little wind-bells hanging from each roof are
real bells of brass.
Next we come to a scene of court life thirty years ago, before the
nobles of Japan had discarded their strikingly characteristic garments
for the European broadcloth which to them is so unbecoming. But here we
have them in tippets and wide sleeves and long, loose trousers, and
robes, and extraordinary head-dresses; and all the ladies are in equally
picturesque attire—and, indeed, we have to look closely before we can
feel quite convinced that all this wealth of rich colour is really
produced by carefully-educated growing plants. True, all the heads,
hands, and feet are wooden, cleverly carved and coloured, but every
other detail is floral.
Here is a charming lady whose whole robe is of red blossoms, her sash of
pearly grey, her under-skirt of green foliage, the folds of crape round
her neck of snowy white blossoms. Her lord and master has bright golden
trousers, a green robe lined with red blossoms, and a tippet of maroon
chrysanthemums.
In one little garden, gay with camelia-trees in full blossom, there is a
dainty little tea-house. Evidently this gardener is a jocose man, for in
the foreground lies a gentleman who has tumbled over and dropped his
wooden clogs in terror at beholding some clothes hung up to dry, which
he has mistaken for a ghost. Out run the other guests, carrying
lanterns, to ascertain the cause of the hubbub. It does not sound very
exciting, but then you must remember that not only are all the figures
clothed in variegated floral drapery, but even the tea-house itself is
made of chrysanthemums; the woodwork is of red blossoms, the walls of
foliage—only the thatch is real, as are also the pretty paper lamps in
the hands of the travellers. So are the lamps hanging round the cabin of
a large green-andgold boat, in which are seen a gorgeously dressed but
evidently very aggravating woman and a very picturesque old Daimio, who
is evidently in a towering rage, and has gone so far as to draw his
sword and threaten the lady. The noble is robed in green, lined with
purple and trimmed with bands of gold, and the lady is chiefly clad in
white and gold, with a claret-coloured under-garment and dark red sash.
Some of the mythological scenes are exceedingly curious, one of the most
effective showing a woman robed in pink and green and gold, engaged in a
furious combat with a gigantic fish. The latter is claret-coloured, with
red head and tail and golden fins. The manner in which the scales are
defined is exceedingly ingenious; but space fails, and in truth such
descriptions must likewise fail to convey the smallest idea of the
amusement to be derived from so ingenious an exhibition as a Japanese
chrysanthemum show.
I saw these in November, just before I left Tokio _en route_ to Kobe,
where I arrived in time to see the dainty, tiny-leafed maple in full
glory. My kind hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Flower, took me a most beautiful
expedition along the sea-coast and then inland to Mino, which is one of
the glens most celebrated for the glory of its maples. These clothe the
banks of a very rocky stream which rushes down, forming picturesque
waterfalls gleaming dazzlingly through the veil of scarlet foliage. As
usual, charmingly pretty tea-houses are perched on the most attractive
sites overlooking the stream. Some of the maples were only just turning
from green to yellow, then gold, scarlet, and ermine, such a marvellous
blaze of colour as would be too gorgeous were it not for the contrast of
dark, pine-clad hills all round.
Large merry parties of men and gaily-dressed girls were thoroughly
enjoying their outing, the gentlemen, moreover, luxuriating in the hot
baths, followed by a cooling process, _al fresco_, in the original
attire of Adam, a custom somewhat embarrassing to the prejudiced
foreigner. To our uneducated ears the night was made hideous by the
discordant noise which to Japanese ears is high-class music, otherwise
all were enjoying themselves very quietly. But to us there was truer
music in the ceaseless murmur of the rushing, foam-flecked river, and
the wind sweeping over the fir-crested hills.
CHAPTER XVI
Wayside Shrines—The Fox God—Old Druggists’ Shops—Punishing Refractory
Idols.
Few things interested me more than the numerous shrines on mountains, in
the forests, or on the sea-shore, loaded with the votive offerings of
poor peasants. Such was the shrine of a hermit famous for his strong
legs. Round this were hung hundreds of half-worn straw sandals, a silent
appeal from their late owners to have strength such as his bestowed on
them. Some had presented gigantic new sandals, and a few had hung up
roughly-outlined pictures of the same.
Specially dear to the farmers is Inari-Sama, generally called “the
Fox-god,” whom they reverence as the special protector of the
rice-crops. Inari means literally “riceman,” and the two Chinese
characters used in writing the name mean “rice-bearing.” We passed
quaint little shrines in the forest, where the wayfarers halted to say a
prayer and cast small offerings into an alms-box, which bore an
inscription to state its purpose, namely, “For feeding hungry demons.”
Thus were the spirits of the forest propitiated. Every here and there in
the steep wooded hills we came to two well-sculptured stone (or perhaps
wooden) foxes sitting on pedestals. Passing between them, we found stone
steps, and as we ascended we came to another couple, and then another,
and another, till perhaps a long way up we reached a neat little shrine
with a god riding on a fox, and before him were laid tempting little
sugar foxes and bowls of rice.
Some of his numerous temples in the towns have beautiful wood-carving,
and bronze foxes carrying urns with five flames rising from them. They
are always in couples, doubtless that one wily beast may watch over the
other. We found a very interesting fox-shrine near Kobe on the summit of
a steep hill, at the foot of which (on the outskirts of a pretty village
of thatched houses) we had noticed a whole row of wooden _torii_ about
twelve feet high, painted a warm red colour. (The _torii_, or
“bird-rest,” are simply two upright pieces of timber, supporting a
third, which form the symbolic gateway at the approach to Shinto
temples.) These were votive offerings from farmers, and led up to a
great _torii_ of stone, guarded on either side by two large stone foxes
mounted on pedestals.
At Kuzunomia, a famous Shinto temple near Osaka, I saw hundreds of these
scarlet _torii_ arranged in avenues, all leading to a very popular
fox-temple. The approach to the main temple is by a fine _cryptomeria_
avenue, beneath which stand a multitude of great stone lanterns—a pretty
and quaint scene. Round this and several neighbouring temples it is
accounted a work of merit to walk a hundred times, keeping reckoning by
means of bunches of string. Of course this has originally been the
sun-wise turn, common throughout the world, but here the pilgrims go
either sun-wise or “widder-shin.” (In Scotland the latter was equivalent
to invoking a curse.)
Some people say that the origin of fox-worship was simply a form of
homage to Uga, the benefactor of mankind, in that he first cultivated
the rice-plant. He is represented in ivory _netzkies_ and other carvings
under the symbol of a snake encircling a bag of rice. Is it not strange
in how many lands we find the same association of the serpent with the
harvest, and his worship as one of the corn-gods? The attendants of
Inari-Sama are foxes, ever ready to do his will, and therefore entitled
to much propitiation by the farmers. So shrines in his honour and that
of his retainers are multiplied all over the land, and children and
peasants rejoice to celebrate various rustic but most picturesque
festivals in honour of the fox-gods, whose images abound in every
direction, and who hold so large a place in legendary lore.
Thus we learn how a noted sword-smith, driven to his wits’ end by a
sudden order from the Mikado to forge a special blade, prayed to
Inari-Sama, who straightway appeared and bade him do his work and fear
nothing. The pious smith obeyed, and having decked his anvil like an
altar with sacred ropes of rice-straw and symbolic _goheis_ of white
paper, prepared to work single-handed, when suddenly the fox-god, in the
likeness of a man, appeared and aided him so powerfully that the fame of
that blade went forth throughout the land. In various tales of old Japan
the fox figures as a most exemplary being; one especially tells of a
peasant who saved the life of a young fox, and soon after, when his
child was dying and the doctor prescribed the liver taken from a living
fox as the only remedy which could save it, the grateful parent-foxes
suddenly appeared, bringing their own young one for this purpose, as an
offering to the good peasants.[64]
On the other hand, here as in China, people often firmly believe in a
form of demoniacal possession[65] in which an evil fox-spirit has
entered into a woman or child, and can only be driven out by priestly
exorcism. Such scenes are represented in many picture-books. I also saw
a finely painted scroll, many yards in length, representing the dire
mischances which befell certain irreligious persons who had malignantly
compassed the death of some foxes, an act which is accounted quite as
criminal in Japan as in England. I wish I could have secured that scroll
as an offering for a certain Master of Fox-Hounds.
At the Kitano-ten-jin, which is a fine temple near Kioto, I saw near the
fox-shrine a handsome bronze bull, and two others of black and red
marble. Amongst the votive offerings to these were many of straw shoes
belonging to sick cattle, and also pictures of bulls presented by
grateful farmers. Also innumerable metal mirrors (Shinto emblems of the
sun) and beautiful brass lanterns inside the temple, and great stone
lanterns in the outer court, all votive offerings.
In many places I saw shrines adorned with locks of human hair, and this
particular offering figures prominently at Kioto, where a great Buddhist
temple, the Hon-gwan-ji, which was burned in an awful fire, has been
magnificently rebuilt, a sum equivalent to £850,000 having been raised,
largely by poor peasants. It is built entirely of wood, supported on
huge pillars imported from the forests of Formosa, and is adorned with a
profusion of admirable wood-carving of flowers, birds, and beasts.
From one of the beams hang about fifty very stout ropes, each about
fifty feet in length, made entirely from the glossy black tresses of
Japanese women, who, having no money to offer, brought this votive
offering—a sacrifice of their most precious possession. These ropes
represent the offerings of many thousands of women.[66] The men likewise
contributed masses of their hair, which was woven into ropes of such
strength that by them at least one of the heavy beams was hauled into
position. It was estimated that 358,883 heads had been shaven to produce
that rope!
Of course the regular method of hairdressing for a man, according to
true Japanese custom, necessitates always shaving the front and middle
of the head, so that only the hair from the back and sides is available
to produce that quaint little tail, stiff with pomatum, which is brought
forward to the top of the head. Now that young Japan allows his hair to
grow, the work of the professional barber must be greatly diminished.
All hairdressing, male and female, is done at the shop, where feminine
hairdressers attend to girls and women, and with skilled hand arrange
those glossy loops and chignons which are always so neat, as if fresh
from the artist’s hand, although they were perhaps dressed a day or two
previously. But the careful damsels have been trained from infancy only
to let their neck rest on the little padded wooden pillow, which just
raises the head sufficiently to prevent its being ruffled on the mat. It
is interesting to find what is practically the same pillow or neck rest,
devised for the same purpose, in Japan, Kaffraria, and the South Sea
Isles.
The Hon-gwan-ji temples, to one of which I referred just now, are those
of a very remarkable sect of Reformed Buddhists who separated from the
main body in the year A.D. 1262. Hence they are called the Shin-shiû, or
New Doctrine, but they are also known as the Monto. Their founder was a
saint of the name of Shinran Shônin. He seems to have attained to a
conception of a life of faith, scarcely to be distinguished from
Christianity, from which it was doubtless adapted.
In place of the cold, unsympathetic teaching of pure Buddhism, with its
faultless standard of well-nigh impossible morality, and requiring a
perfection to which every man must attain by his own merit, without any
aid whatsoever from any Superior Being (for Buddha only left an example
of superhuman purity and self-extinction, which his disciples must
strive to follow without any help from him). In place of this cold
teaching, Shinran taught that Buddha the Supreme is full of tender
compassion for all his creatures, and that of his boundless mercy he
desires to help all who rely on his aid and his merit to attain the
blessedness of Nirvana, a state which, to the Shin-shiûist, implies no
cold extinction, but rather the blessedness of eternal happiness.
The impracticable standard of pure Buddhism, which sanctioned no direct
worship of any sort, had led to the growth of a complex mythology in
which innumerable beings who were believed to have attained to the
perfect state were not only recognised as Buddhas, but received actual
worship.
The Shin-shiû sect, while recognising that all these have attained the
rank of Buddhas, maintain that they did so only by the help and merit of
Amida Buddha, who alone is to be worshipped, and that the true way of
salvation is to have a saving faith in him, to keep his mercy ever in
the heart, to invoke his name in order to remember him, and especially
to cultivate gratitude for his great goodness. Thus the distinctive
doctrine of this reformed sect is a belief in “help from another,” and
the vain repetition of forms of words is discouraged.
This help does not extend to things temporal, for it is not lawful to
pray for happiness in this present life, that being a matter beyond the
control of any save the individual concerned, who must make or mar his
own present condition according to his diligence or carelessness in the
practice of morality.
This is the teaching of the learned; but we may be sure that as regards
the mass of the worshippers who have thus been taught to commune with
Amida Buddha as with a personal Saviour, the craving of the human heart
will not express itself only with respect to things spiritual.
It is evident that the humanity and comfort to be found in this reformed
Buddhism has given it a hold on the affections of the people which the
other sects are rapidly losing, for whereas they are for the most part
growing weaker and weaker, and their temples falling into decay from
sheer neglect, those of the Monto continue to be thronged by devout
worshippers, who prove their devotion to their church by the most
open-handed offerings for its support, and for the repair of its vast
temples—temples which were built on so gigantic a scale, that there
might be room for all the multitude who should assemble to hear the
preaching that proclaimed the welcome news of a Mighty Helper.
In its appeal to the human sympathies, and consequently to the masses,
the Shin-Shiû seems to me to hold the same position with regard to other
Buddhist sects that the worship of Juggernath (with its festival of Holy
Food, to be eaten in common by prince and pariah,) does to all other
sects among the Hindoos.
Even the priests are exempt from the life-long struggle to attain
self-righteousness by asceticism, and are freely allowed to eat both
fish and flesh—and also to marry and make their homes as happy as they
can. They are required to be diligent in preaching, that they may make
known to all men this better creed, and theological colleges have been
established in order to bestow such thorough training, that the
preachers may be fitted to cope with all rival teachers, whether
Christian or Shintoist.
With all its advantages, the Monto creed nevertheless retains a full
belief in transmigration, with all its weary succession of stages in an
interminable existence; so that the man who, failing to claim the
merciful aid of Amida Buddha, continues to be the slave of evil passions
(such as anger or covetousness), must inevitably at the close of his
present life be reborn as a lower animal, there to be met by the same
mercy, offered to him in a new phase.
I do not know why these temples are built in couples, but both at Osaka
and Kioto there are two close together, the Nishi, or Western, and the
Higashi, or Eastern, Hon-gwan-ji, whose gigantic twin thatched roofs are
conspicuous objects. I visited them all, and (notwithstanding the Monto
repudiation of a belief in heaping up merit by vain repetitions) I found
outside each of these, large revolving scripture-wheels, just the same
as one at the Chi-on-in monastery of the Jō-do sect, and many other
places.
Nevertheless there is a simple solemnity about these vast interiors,
where there is comparatively little of obtrusive idolatry—only the great
gilt images of Buddha and his disciples, dimly seen in the cool, deep
shadow. Leaving our boots in the verandah not to sully the beautifully
clean mats, we admired the exquisite uncoloured wood-carving of birds,
beasts, flowers, phœnix, and dragons. In the first we entered, a group
of priests in richly-coloured vestments, were chanting their litanies
before the altar, occasionally ringing a small bell—and the fragrance of
incense filled the air. There were only a handful of worshippers
present, but they were unmistakably in earnest. As we passed behind a
very respectable-looking woman, my companion overheard her simple
petition: “O Buddha,” she said, “I have been very rude to you; I pray
you to forgive me.” And when she had ended her prayer, she uttered a
fervent “_Arigato, arigato_”—“I thank you,” with deeper feeling than
goes with many an Amen.
There is said to be room in the temple for two thousand worshippers, who
need no seats nor church accommodation other than the soft clean mats on
which they kneel.
Beyond this house of prayer, there is a hall of preaching, where a
black-robed priest, with crimson hood, expounds the law to a few
attentive hearers, emphasising his words by tapping on his reading-desk
with his fan. What a sensation it would produce in London if some of our
great preachers carried fans into the pulpit on hot summer days. And yet
what could be more sensible?
An extremely interesting Buddhist temple of quite another type, is that
of Tennō-ji, in Osaka, which is dedicated to the Goddess of Mercy, but
has many other shrines. In one small metal pagoda three thousand tiny
images of many Buddhas receive homage, and near them are paintings of
four mythological kings, each wearing the invariable halo, and holding
“The Wheel of the Law.” Small wheels inscribed with Sanscrit characters
are fastened on the gateways, and the worshippers gave them a twirl;
also (as usual in a building by itself) stands a revolving
scripture-wheel containing all the sacred Buddhist books, inviting the
faithful to give it a turn on its pivot.
Above all towers a lofty five-storied pagoda, each finely curved roof
supported by many dragons’ heads, and terminating in carved elephants’
heads, the red woodwork gleaming against the blue sky.
But a specially pathetic interest centres round two temples, one on each
side of the great court, at which mothers offer the clothes, dolls, and
other playthings of their sick or dead children, quite regardless of the
contagion or infection which these may scatter. To put herself in
communication with the Goddess of Mercy, the sorrowing mother holds the
end of the rope which the priest pulls while tolling the great bell. (In
all the temples there are long silken bell-ropes which the worshippers
pull to call attention to their prayer, that they may not waste them on
inattentive deities.)
But what interested me most of all in that neighbourhood was the
discovery of two shops which at first I took to be taxidermists, well
filled with specimens of their art. Like all their neighbours, they were
open to the street, so we were able to take a leisurely survey of their
strange contents; and it was some time before I could quite realise that
these really were druggists’ shops of the pure and unadulterated old
Chinese school, happily quite untouched by foreign innovations.
So rapidly has the scientific study of medicine been taken up by the
Japanese medical practitioners, that the survival of such chemists was
quite remarkable, and I was greatly struck by the evident annoyance of a
Japanese gentleman, to whom I expressed my interest in having seen these
curious mediæval shops; he evidently felt it humiliating that a
foreigner should have seen such a relic of the days of foolish
ignorance! He could not possibly understand how this glimpse of the
little shops in Osaka enabled me to realise, as I had never done before,
what strange medicines were administered to our British ancestors in the
Middle Ages, and indeed within the last two centuries.
The quaint old men, whose loyal adherence to the customs of their
forefathers afforded me such an interesting illustration of old Japan
and old Britain, were compounders and sellers of CUROYAKIE, _i.e._
carbonised animals—in other words, animals reduced to charcoal, and
potted in a multitude of small covered jars of earthenware, neatly
ranged on shelves, to be sold as medicine for the sick and suffering.
Formerly all these animals were kept alive in the back premises, and
customers selected the creature for themselves, and stood by to see it
killed and burnt on the spot, so that there could be no deception, and
no doubt as to the freshness of their calcined skin or bone medicine.
Doubtless some insensible foreign influence—very likely some police
regulation—may account for the disappearance of the menagerie of waiting
victims and their cremation-ground. Now the zoological back-yard has
vanished, and only the strange chemist’s shop remains, like a
well-stored museum, wherein are ranged portions of the dried carcases of
dogs and deer, foxes and badgers, fishes and serpents, rats and mice,
toads and frogs, tigers and elephants.
The rarer the animal, and the further it has travelled, the more
precious, apparently, are its virtues. From the roof hung festoons of
gigantic snake-skins, which certainly were foreign importations from
some land where pythons flourish, Japan being happily exempt from the
presence of such beautiful monsters. I saw one very fine piece of skin,
which, though badly dried and much shrunken, measured twenty-six inches
across; but it was only a fragment ten feet in length, and was being
gradually consumed, inch by inch, to lend mystic virtue to compounds of
many strange ingredients. I was told that the perfect skin must have
measured nearly fifty feet in length. I saw another fragment twenty-two
feet long and twelve inches wide—this also had evidently shrunk
considerably in drying, and must, when in life, have been a very fine
specimen.
There were also some very fine deers’ horns, (hart’s-horn in its pure
and simple form), a highly-valued rhinoceros horn, and ivory of various
animals. My companion was much tempted by a beautiful piece of ivory
about ten feet in length. I think it was the horn of a narwhal, but the
druggist would only sell it for its price as medicine, namely ten cents
for fifty-eight grains—whence we inferred that the druggists of old
Japan, like some nearer home, fully understand the art of making a
handsome profit on their sales!
Tigers’ teeth and claws were also esteemed very precious, and some
strips of fur of the woolly tiger of China (a much handsomer animal than
the hairy tiger of India), and fragments of other skins and furs, proved
that these also held a place in the pharmacopœia of old Japan, as they
continue to do in China (the source whence Japan derived many branches
of learning besides the use of letters).
Unfortunately for the little lizards, which dart about so joyously in
the sunlight, they too are classed among the popular remedies, being
considered an efficacious vermifuge, so strings of these ghastly little
corpses are hung in festoons in many village shops where I have often
looked wonderingly at them. So lizards and dried scorpions (imported as
medicine) also found a place in these strange druggists’ shops, which,
with their general litter of oddities of various sorts, strongly
resembled old curiosity-shops, while the eccentric old men in the midst
of it all might have passed for mediæval wizards, rather than for grave
dispensers of drugs as, in dark caps and flowing robes, they sat
crouching over their little _hibachis_ (fire-pots) boiling broth of
abominable things in small vessels.
On my return to England, I borrowed from several old libraries
(especially the Advocates’ Library in Edinburgh) various books on
Anglo-Saxon Leechdoms, and sundry medical works of the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, especially such as related to the use of calcined
animals, and as I read the medicine-lore of our very recent ancestors, I
realised how accurately I had seen it represented in Osaka.[67] Although
we cannot flatter ourselves that our ancestors were as exquisite in
their neatness as the Japanese, or their earthenware jars as dainty and
refined, there must have been just similar assortments of vessels
containing the ashes of goat’s flesh, of dead bees, of wolf’s skull, or
swine’s jaw, nay even of human skulls and bones. On the walls hung
remains of birds, lizards, rats, and moles, together with skins of
serpents, portions of mummies, horns of stags, rhinoceros, narwhal, and
many other items of the strange _materia medica_ of our own ancestors.
In Hogarth’s illustrations of _Marriage à la Mode_, Plate III. shows a
druggist’s shop in London in 1745, with shelves well stocked with little
jars, and surmounted by a stuffed wolf’s head, while on another cupboard
(which stands open to reveal a skeleton) hangs a large narwhal horn,
part of a sword-fish, two dried crocodiles, and sundry other reptiles.
Doubtless such quaint shops were then found near majestic Westminster
Abbey and St. Paul’s, just as the little Osaka drug-stores still existed
side by side with the latest innovations of science, such as the
numerous Japanese doctors, highly trained in England and America, the
railway, telegraph, gas, and, most remarkable of all, a magnificent
Mint, with fine large English houses for its foreign employees, and all
the latest improvements in all its machinery, making it far more perfect
than our own in London. So I was told by the English Master of the Mint,
who most kindly took me all over it and entertained me most hospitably
during my visit to Osaka.
In these streets every shop is a temptation to linger, and every group
of figures suggests sketching, especially those of children playing
happily, although each has a baby securely strapped on his or her back.
Often while I was busily sketching I found quite a crowd of these
courteous little people silently watching my work, and on one occasion I
counted twelve small boys, each thus carrying the family baby! They were
all so quiet that I should scarcely have known they were there, but that
occasionally one of the boys would whisper some kind remark to the grave
little one whose small face appeared above his shoulders. They were most
picturesque in their gay dressing-gowns, with long sleeves and open neck
lined with some bright colour, and gay waist-cloth.
The commonest game of these little folk, encumbered with babies and long
garments, is a variety of battledore and shuttlecock, in which the sole
of the foot acts as battledore,—very jerky for the babies!
One of the quaintest national festivals in honour of children is the
feast of the _Nobori_, which are large paper fishes, floating from tall
bamboos; these are attached to the roof of every house in which a son
has been born in the previous twelvemonth. The emblematic fish is the
carp, which is the emblem of perseverance, a characteristic which he is
said to display in working his way up difficult rapids. As Japanese
babies are legion, a considerable number of houses in every street are
entitled to hang up this curious announcement, which I have no doubt
fills the happy mother with considerable pride. The open mouth of the
carp catches the breeze, which puffs it out like a balloon, and keeps it
constantly in movement.
As the elder brothers might be jealous of a baby who had such an honour
all to himself, the day is made joyful to them by gifts of boys’
playthings—warrior dolls, and little heroic demi-gods, with any number
of flags and banners; and to these national toys are now added miniature
cannon, guns, and other modern innovations. I need not say that to me
only the purely native toys were attractive, and their variety is
surprising.
Fascinating as are even the commonest kinds of Japanese dolls (such are
now so freely imported to Europe) I was tantalised by accounts of the
delightfully quaint doll-army which holds sway throughout the land for
one day in every year—namely, the third day of the third month. It is
known as the Hina Matsuri, that is to say “The Dolls’ Festival.” The
dolls in question all represent historical or mythological
characters—gods and demi-gods, Mikados and Shoguns, warlike heroes,
Empress and other ladies of note, minstrels, courtiers, priests. They
vary in size from tiny things to about twelve inches in height, and are
made of wood or baked clay or china, but all alike are beautifully
dressed in correct costume.
Two of these are presented to every baby girl at the first festival
after her birth, and as they are carefully treasured from year to year,
and fresh dolls are occasionally added, the family doll-house requires
to be capacious. When a girl marries she takes her original brace of
dolls with her to her new home, as an early offering for her prospective
family! The dolls are provided with miniature properties of all sorts,
tiny but exquisitely lacquered tables, with complete dinner or tea-sets,
all requisites for the toilet and for painting, and making music.
These well-brought-up little Japanese maidens commence their festival by
making formal offerings of sweetmeats and rice-wine to the dolls who
personate the Mikado and the Kôgô—and then devote the whole long, happy
day to play with the delightful companions who at night will be hidden
from them, not to be seen again for twelve long months. I have had the
luck to be shown some of these precious dolls, but they are only offered
for sale at the orthodox season.
Japanese ingenuity seems never at a loss for something on which to
expend itself, and as kite-flying is one of the popular amusements of
old and young, much care is bestowed on decorating the kites. These are
generally simply of a square form, a canvas (sometimes five or six feet
square!) on which to depict strange mythological, theatrical, or
historic scenes. But sometimes the kite-maker wearies of so prosaic a
form, so he shapes his kite like some great bird or flying dragon, or
other strange object. And he fastens to it a narrow strip of bamboo or
whale-bone, so placed that as it flies through the wind it shall produce
a low humming sound like an Eolian harp.
When grown up men take to kite-flying, they dip the upper end of the
string in glue, and then in powdered glass, so that it may become a
sharp cutting-instrument. Then several go out together and take sides
(sometimes they adopt the names of the grand old families to give point
to their mimic warfare) and each tries to fly his kite higher than that
of his opponent, and then suddenly to draw it down, and in so doing cut
loose his rival.
As all the shops are open to the street, and the workers never seemed at
all to object to our halting to watch them, I saw much of the processes
of manufacture, from that of exquisitely delicate patterns of enamel on
copper or china, to that of idols being rough-hewn from the original
timber, and thence up to the highly coloured and gilded article, ready
to receive worship.
On several occasions, in rural districts, I saw a regular ecclesiastical
“spring-cleaning” going on, which was exceedingly curious. Thus on the
shores of beautiful Lake Biwa we halted at a tumble-down old temple
called Go-Hiyaku-Rakkan, sacred to the five hundred disciples of Buddha,
and there found a painter of images repairing five hundred very cleverly
carved old images, every one different, and all full of character; a
large number of them representing devout women. The artist was endowing
each with a new halo, which, with the gaudy fresh paint, vulgarised
them. About half had been thus renovated, and their arms, heads, and
legs were stuck on sticks to dry. The great Amida Butzu was represented
with a wife on either side, one riding on a lion, and the other on a
white elephant.
A few months later I saw various similar scenes in the course of my
wanderings in China, and heard much about the very peculiar attitude of
the Chinese towards the celestial powers, and their mode of dealing with
refractory gods, who cannot be induced to grant the humble prayers of
their worshippers. This is most strikingly shown in regard to those gods
who are supposed to have special control of the weather, and whose
neglect to send rain in due season (or rather, their grievously
irregular distribution of this gift) results in the terrible droughts
and awful floods which so frequently devastate vast tracts of the
Chinese Empire.
In the first instance the gods are approached in all humility, with
fasting and prayer, the temples are thronged, and the officials of
inferior rank even go thither on foot. Should they fail to obtain their
petition, officials of higher grade take the matter in hand; first the
City Prefect, then the Governor-General of the Province, clothed in
sack-cloth, and loaded with chains and fetters, and escorted by the
Arch-Abbots of both Buddhist and Taonist temples. Failing these, a
Prince of the Imperial family tries his persuasive power, and should the
Water Dragon still prove obdurate the Emperor himself assumes his
highest office as High Priest of his people.
Should the Imperial prayer be granted, the good Dragon is rewarded by a
general repair of his temples, and by the official award of a new title,
which is duly chronicled in the _Peking Gazette_. Thus in 1867, when
after a season of prolonged drought the scorched earth at last hailed
refreshing showers, a certain well near his temple at Han-tan, in the
Province of Honan, was officially canonised as “The Holy Well of the
Dragon God.”
But when the gods prove obdurate, their worshippers sometimes lose
patience and resort to most irreverent methods of bringing them to
reason, such as carrying the idols from the cool shade of their temples,
and depositing them in the scorching sun till they are cracked and
blistered, and their paint and gilding all falls off. Thus they are
supposed to realise something of the discomfort to which they are
subjecting poor human beings.
For it must not be imagined that the idols are incapable of feeling! Dr.
Dudgeon of Peking, who examined a number, while in process of demolition
in various old temples, told me that inside the idols he found the
various organs of the chest, heart, lungs, abdomen, and intestines in
general, all accurately figured according to Chinese notions of anatomy.
Some of these were several hundred years old, but all in wonderful
preservation, being generally made of rich silk or satin, the heart
being of red silk, with veins of variously coloured silk proceeding from
it. To the heart is frequently attached a small brass mirror, to enable
the god to reflect the heart of his worshipper, and to this is also
attached an invocation written on silk and wound round a stick. The
bowels are all enveloped in a large piece of silk or satin, so as to
keep all compact.
In certain cases, though no visible idol is made to suffer, the
invisible Water Dragon is made exceedingly uncomfortable by the
application of an iron gag. In the well to which I have already
referred, in the Court of the Temple of the Water Dragon, outside the
gates of the city at Han-tan, there is kept an iron plate six inches
long and half an inch thick, on which is inscribed a petition for
abundance of rain. When all other means to obtain relief in times of
excessive drought have proved in vain, the Emperor sends a special
officer to travel all the way to the Province of Honan, to bring this
plate to Peking. Its arrival having been duly notified in the _Gazette_,
it is reverently placed on the altar in the great Temple of the National
gods, where it is supposed to act as a key to lock the mouth of the
great Water Dragon, who is chief of the Rain-gods, and this makes him so
extremely uncomfortable, that he hastens to send rain, to induce his
troublesome worshippers to remove the gag!!
It is not only the gods of the weather who are dealt with in this
extraordinary fashion. On the same principle that a surgeon sometimes
bandages the eyes of his patient during some horrible operation, so
while a temple is undergoing repair, and the dilapidated images are
irreverently stowed away in a corner, their eyes are covered with little
strips of paper, as a hint that they are requested not to observe what
is going on, till all is restored to order.
But the most startling of all human relations to celestial beings, are
when the former venture to sit in judgment on the latter, and, finding
them guilty of misdemeanour, condemn the idols to decapitation—the form
of execution which is held in the utmost abhorrence, and is deemed
infinitely worse than hanging or crucifixion, because its evil
consequences follow the dead beyond this present life, a decapitated
spirit being immediately recognised as quite unfit company for
respectable spirits, whose bodies were buried intact. It is therefore
evident that to subject a god to such treatment, represents the very
acme of contempt.
Yet this was done in 1889 at Foo Chow, where amongst the numberless
temples to gods of every description, there is one temple specially
frequented by persons desiring to be revenged on their foes. A few
months previously the Tartar military commander died suddenly, and his
death was forthwith attributed by the populace to the gods of this
temple. Hearing this, the Viceroy of the province issued commands to the
Prefect of the city that they should be legally arrested, and judicially
punished.
Armed with the Viceroy’s warrant, the Prefect proceeded to the temple
and arrested fifteen wooden idols, averaging five feet in height—hideous
beings gaudily painted. Their eyes were at once destroyed, in order that
they might not see who was their judge, nor be able to trouble him in
this world or in the life to follow. Thus sightless, they were brought
before the judgment-seat of the Prefect, who having fully investigated
the case, sent his report to the Viceroy, who pronounced the terrible
verdict that all fifteen should be beheaded, their bodies be cast into a
neighbouring pond, and there left to decay, while their temple should be
sealed with the Government seal, which no man dare break, and thus be
deserted for evermore. Thus were these injudicious gods banished from
Foo Chow never more to trouble the peace of its inhabitants!
CHAPTER XVII
Ascent of Fujiyama—Its Crater—View from the Summit—Triangular
Shadow—Numerous Volcanic Eruptions.
I must refrain from further memories of delightful Japan, except to tell
of one expedition which was the crowning joy of my six months in the
group. This was my pilgrimage to the summit of FUJIYAMA, the Peerless
Mountain, FUJI-SAN! the most honourable, which is the name by which it
is known by the Japanese.
It is dear to the traveller as the first and last vision of beauty that
enchants him as he approaches the Land of the Rising Sun, or watches its
receding shores. While still too far at sea to discern any land of
ordinary height, this lovely mountain appears towering above the clouds,
sometimes bathed in golden light, sometimes pale celestial blue, or else
relieved in purply grey against a clear primrose sky; its colour varying
with every change of atmosphere, never lovelier than when the early
sunlight sheds a rosy hue over the newly fallen autumn snow which
clothes that lonely summit in dazzling white, while the grand unbroken
curves of the wide, far-spreading base sweep downward in purple gloom.
Beautiful as are the low ranges of mountains around, they are so utterly
dwarfed by the gigantic, dormant volcano, that they serve but to add to
its apparent height. Thus, queenly alike in her beauty and in her
solitude, rises this majestic mountain—the Holy Mount of Japan—the goal
to which, from time immemorial, thousands of eager pilgrims have pressed
year after year. (Though I use the word gigantic, the height of Fuji
does not really exceed twelve thousand six hundred feet, some say twelve
thousand four hundred, which, as compared with the height of peaks I
have seen in the Himalayas of nineteen thousand to twenty-one thousand,
is not pre-eminent, but then we always see those when we are ourselves
at an altitude of about ten thousand feet, whereas Fuji has the full
value of isolation, and rises in a perfect sweep from the sea-level.)
I had seen the fair vision while yet distant a hundred miles from its
base, and from many nearer points both on sea and land; I had gazed on
its snowy crown when, in the autumn of 1878, I first visited Japan. And
yet the hope of ever being myself numbered among its pilgrims had never
presented itself as a possibility. However, on my return from six
months’ wandering in China, the idea did suggest itself, but only to be
repudiated, so serious were the difficulties which stay-at-home friends
declared to lie in the path. Nevertheless, the thought, once admitted,
returned with fresh force every time that a break in the envious clouds
afforded us a momentary glimpse of the mysterious mighty giant.
At last I had the good-fortune to find a lady as anxious as myself to
make the ascent; and a gentleman (a boy friend of my early schooldays)
who had already accomplished it four times, but always in unpropitious
weather, volunteered to try his luck once more, and be our escort. So,
being duly provided with passports, which ordered us to abstain from
scribbling our names on temples, attending fires on horseback, and
various other crimes, and empowered us to travel in certain districts
for thirty days, we started from Yokohama at sunrise on 7th August, not,
however, beginning our journey in true pilgrim style, inasmuch as we had
engaged a very good three-horse waggonette to take us as far as
Oodiwara, a distance of about forty miles; a very pretty drive through
cultivated lands and picturesque villages, beneath cryptomerias and pine
avenues, along beautiful sea-coast, and past orchards and temples.
[Illustration:
_C. F. Gordon Cumming._
FUJIYAMA FROM THE OTOMITONGA PASS.
]
Amongst the infinite variety of crops, our attention was from time to
time arrested by whole fields of lovely, tall white lilies, the roots of
which are used for food. Or else we passed ponds or flooded fields
devoted to the sacred lotus, whose magnificent rose, white, or
lemon-coloured blossoms peeped up from among the large blue-green
leaves, which rise to a height of three or four feet above the level of
the water—certainly the most lovely of all edible plants.
Heaps of luscious green water-melons, with pink flesh, were offered for
sale, in slices ready cut, to tempt the thirsty pilgrims, of whom
multitudes thronged the road, on their way to or from the Holy Mount,
nearly all dressed in white, with straw hats like huge mushrooms, straw
sandals, a wallet, a gourd to act as water-bottle, cloaks of grass
matting, sole protection against the rain, and a stout staff to support
their flagging steps on many a weary march. They come from all parts of
the Empire, visiting and making offerings at all the most sacred shrines
along their path. One at least, sometimes several, in each company
carries a small brass bell, which he rings continually, and the majority
carry rosaries, which they prize exceedingly. Some of these are really
valuable heirlooms, the large beads being either of crystal or agate.
Every tea-house along the road was gay with a multitude of quaint calico
flags of all colours, having mysterious-looking symbols inscribed on
them. Of these, dozens fluttered from a bamboo erected in front of the
house, or from a long rope suspended under the eaves. These are the
visiting-cards left by previous pilgrims, and now hung up as
testimonials to attract others.
Another pretty custom added colour to the scene. This being the seventh
month of the Japanese year, a sort of school examination was going on
everywhere, and in front of every second or third house was planted a
graceful bunch of bamboo, from each twig of which fluttered little
strips of bright-coloured paper, whereon the children of the house had
written some little sentence or poem as a test of their progress.
When we returned by the same road a fortnight later, another festival
had its turn. The children’s trees had vanished, but in every house
feasts for the dead were spread before the domestic shrine; coloured
lanterns and straw ropes, from which fluttered sacred symbols of white
paper, were suspended in the streets. The heaps of water-melons, too,
had disappeared, the sale of all fruit being prohibited by law, as a
precaution against the dreaded cholera, which, alas! was spreading in
every direction, its presence being marked by a house here and there
enclosed by the police with bamboo fencing, to prevent ingress or egress
from its infected walls. At one door we noticed an onion hung up, as a
charm to keep off the dreaded malady. But the most singular and common
medicines which attracted our attention, hung out in fanciful patterns
outside the houses, were dried lizards, which, when reduced to powder,
are supposed to be exceedingly efficacious in some simple childish
maladies (as a vermifuge).
But in Japan there is always something interesting to notice, either for
its beauty or its oddity. For instance, how strange to one newly arrived
in the country, is the first halt at such a tea-house as that where we
stopped to change horses and partake of a light native meal; the pile of
wooden clogs lying on the threshold, the tired coolies squatting on the
mats, enjoying what looks like the prettiest doll’s feast in little
china dishes with bowls of black and red lacquer, served on lacquer
stands by the most winsome and polite of prettily dressed damsels, while
close by, always next the street, is the kitchen where all these
dainties are prepared!
And probably in the open courtyard a large wooden tub is being heated,
by means of a charcoal stove, for the benefit of some dusty travellers.
Probably those travellers, well-to-do tradesmen, will proceed to divest
themselves of all superfluous garments, and, hanging them up to air,
will sit down in the very lightest attire, to share the family meal with
the well-dressed ladies of the party. And all these different
groups—your own included—are, as it were, in one large open room, for
the paper slides which divide the house into many rooms at night have
all been thrown open during the day, leaving free space.
It was about two o’clock when we reached Oodiwara, the point at which we
were to leave our carriage and ponies (for in Japan all horses are mere
ponies), and proceed in _jinrikshas_, literally _man-power carriages_,
which are simply light bath-chairs, quite a recent invention, but one
which has multiplied all over the land with marvellous rapidity.
Owing to the steepness of the road, we had but a short run in these
little carriages, and were next transferred to _kangos_, or mountain
chairs, which are basket-work seats slung on a pole, borne by two men.
Being made for the little Japanese, they are, of course, horribly
uncomfortable for full-grown Europeans, for whose benefit, however,
kangos of a larger size are now made, and can be had at Myanoshita,
whither we were now bound. It is a pretty village in a wooded valley,
noted for its shops for the sale of all manner of fancy woodwork, and
much frequented in summer by foreigners, for whose benefit two large
hotels are now kept in semi-European style. As we infinitely preferred a
purely Japanese tea-house, we pushed on a short distance to the far
prettier village of Kinga, where we found excellent quarters, though I
confess that the sound of ever-rushing, brawling waters in the immediate
vicinity, is to me anything but a soothing lullaby.
On the following morning, having secured kangos of extra size, three men
to each, and a packhorse to carry our baggage and provisions, we started
very leisurely across the plain, and up a very steep ascent to the
Otomitonga Pass, a very narrow saddle, from which on the one side we
looked back on the Hakoni Lake and on the valley through which we had
travelled, while before us lay outspread the vast level plain from which
the faultlessly harmonious curves of the great mountain sweep
heavenward. Probably from no other point is so magnificent a view to be
obtained as from this, as we acknowledged when, on our homeward route,
we contrived to reach this point soon after sunrise, and for a little
while beheld the giant revealed in cloudless beauty.
On the present occasion, however, our march was one of simplest
faith—not a break was there in the close grey mist, which clung around
us as a pall, and veiled even the nearest trees. Vainly did we halt at
the little rest-house on the summit of the Pass, and there linger over
luncheon in the hope that the mist might clear a little. We had to
console ourselves, as our bearers assuredly did, with the consequent
coolness of the weather, and devote our attention to the beautiful wild
flowers which grew so abundantly along our path. There were real
thistles and bluebells growing side by side with white, pink, and blue
hydrangea, lilac and white hybiscus, masses of delicate white clematis
and creeping ferns hanging in graceful drapery over many a plant of
sturdier growth, and all manner of lilies, greenish and lilac, crimson,
orange, and pure white.
A few days earlier the splendid _lilium auratum_ had been flowering in
such profusion that the air was too heavy with its perfume. I was told
that it grows freely on all the grassy slopes of Fuji at an altitude of
about four thousand feet, wherever leaf-mould has formed over decomposed
volcanic material. At some of the tea-houses where we halted for
luncheon, bulbs of this glorious lily, cooked with ginger, were served
as a vegetable. It did seem profanation. I fastened one magnificent
spike to the front of my kango, where the white blossoms shone in relief
against the brown back of my bearer, till, alas! the constant process of
changing men crushed my lilies and their lovely buds.
It was already five o’clock when we reached Gotemba, a pretty town lying
about half-way across the plain, but we had determined to push on to
Subashiri, which is considerably nearer the base of the mountain. Heavy
rain came on, and the men very sensibly demurred at going farther.
British obstinacy, however, carried the day, and we subjected them and
ourselves to the misery of reaching our destination in the dark, to find
the only good rooms occupied, and all our clothes and other goods
soaked—a serious matter in a Japanese house, where the only means of
drying them is over a small _hibachi_, which is simply a small brass
bowl containing a handful of charcoal. We spent a considerable portion
of the night at this primitive occupation, aided by a pretty little
Japanese damsel, and, as a matter of course, were not inclined for an
early start next morning.
The village is a long straggling street, gay with the pilgrim flags
which float from its many tea-houses, while from the grove of rich green
cryptomerias which clothes the base of the mountain, appear the quaint
overhanging thatch roofs of a fine old Shinto gateway and temple, at
which all devout pilgrims pay their vows ere commencing the ascent.
Passing by a shrine, which is the stable of the sacred white wooden
horse, they perform their ceremonial ablutions at the fountain, where a
sacred bronze dragon ceaselessly spouts clear running water into a stone
tank, from the wooden canopy of which float bright calico flags which
act as towels.
Then the pilgrims, who at this season press on in ceaseless streams,
assemble in groups before the temple, or else kneel reverently before
the sacred mirror on the altar, while the old priest, rapidly repeating
some formula of blessing or of prayer, holds up a great bronze sort of
crozier, from which floats an immense _gohei_, a sort of banner of
mystically cut paper hanging in very peculiar folds, which is the Shinto
symbol of God, supposed to have originated in a play on the word _kami_,
which expresses both God and paper. Having thus consecrated the first
stage of their pilgrimage, the wayfarers, on their descent, return here,
or else by the sacred village of Yoshida, a very picturesque spot on
another spur of the mountain, where the priest imprints a stamp on their
garments which shall prove them true pilgrims in the sight of all men,
and the raiment thus sanctified will become a relic and heirloom for
ever.
It was ten o’clock ere we were ready to start. The same grey
uncompromising weather continued, and our one consolation lay in the
cool freshness of the air, knowing how trying would be the ascent over
that great expanse of bare lava should the sun blaze with the same
fierce intensity that it had been doing for some time previously. We
were already at the height of 2500 feet above the sea-level, and our
route from this point was a steady ascent over volcanic ash and cinders.
The lower slopes of the mountain are all wooded; a good deal of larch
mingles with the fir; cryptomerias and other pines, willow, maple, and
chestnut all flourish, and raspberries grow abundantly.
About two and a half hours brought us to the rest-house, where by law we
were obliged to leave our kangos, as no carrying nor any beast of burden
is allowed on the Holy Mount. Even coolies cannot be engaged here, but
those whom foreigners bring with them are winked at, and ours had agreed
to accompany us all the way. From this point to the summit takes from
seven to eight hours’ steady walking.
There are eight or nine rest-houses at easy intervals, two or three of
which had collapsed the previous winter and had not been rebuilt; but at
the others, which are merely wooden sheds, we were offered welcome tiny
cups of pale tea, and a bowl of rice with savoury accompaniments, or a
tray of sweetmeats, notably peppermint drops, and a sort of very strong
crystallised peppermint, of which an infinitesimal quantity is given as
a reviving dram. A drink by no means to be despised, and which we found
very sustaining, is a compound of raw eggs, beaten up with sugar and hot
_saki_—a kind of wine distilled from rice. In our character of pilgrims
we tasted all that was offered us, and rather enjoyed the curious fare.
Our route for some distance lay through pleasant woods, in which we
found a good deal of white rhododendron, blue monkshood, and masses of
large pink campanula and small bluebells. Further up we passed through
thick alder scrub, and found quantities of real Alpine strawberries, on
which we feasted. Finally we emerged on to the bare cone, which
presented precisely the appearance of a vast cinder heap.
One coolie had been told off to help each of the ladies, and mine did me
good service by going ahead carrying the two ends of a hammock which (as
being softer than a rope) I had passed round my waist. We pressed on in
advance of the others, till, after five hours’ climbing, we reached the
rest-house known as No. 6, where I was welcomed by an old man, who, with
infinite discretion, immediately spread a _fautong_, or wadded quilt,
rolled up another as a pillow, and heaped up a big fire, the material
for which must have been brought from the woods far below. In a few
minutes I began shivering violently, but was all right ere the others
arrived, which they did in a sharp thunder-shower.
The rain soon ceased, and then for the first time the summit stood out
perfectly clear, seeming so close that it was quite aggravating not to
have gained it. But we were all thoroughly tired and disinclined to go
further, so we arranged to sleep here. The sunset was magnificent, and a
splendid double rainbow spanned the heavens. We had brought our own
provisions and two Japanese attendants, so supper was duly served, and
we then made the best of rough quarters.
Our landlady at Shibashiri had kindly lent us a huge roll of quilts,
made up in the form of gigantic wadded dressing-gowns with sleeves,
three of which made a very heavy coolie-load. In these we wrapped
ourselves, and lay down in the corner farthest from the wood fire, round
which our shivering attendants crouched, but the smoke of which made our
eyes smart horribly. We were, however, soon routed from our lair by the
heavy rain which dripped through the roof. Happily we had brought large
sheets of oiled paper to protect our baggage, and these, being spread as
a canopy over our heads, proved excellent protection.
At 1 A.M. we woke and found the rain had ceased, and that a bright
half-moon was shining, so we quickly roused our host, and made him
prepare rice for the coolies, and also some breakfast for ourselves, and
at 3 A.M. we started for the last, and by far the steepest, part of the
ascent. By mistake we got on to the track by which the pilgrims descend,
which is quite straight instead of zigzaging, and also leads over very
soft decomposed ash, in which we sank so deep at every step that it was
very exhausting.
We therefore struck across the cone, and scrambled over a belt of rough
lava, beyond which we found a very uncertain track, which, however,
eventually led us to the beaten path, trodden by such multitudes of
pilgrims, and so thickly strewn with their cast-off straw sandals, as to
give it the appearance of having had straw laid over it. As these shoes
cost somewhat less than a halfpenny a pair, they can be replaced without
serious extravagance, and the provident traveller is wont to carry at
least one extra pair; more would be unnecessary, as they are sold at
every halting-place. Many pilgrims overtook us, hastening upwards, and
repeating in chorus a sort of chant, “Rokkonshōjo, Rokkonshōjo,” which
is a formula expressive of the purity of flesh and spirit required in
those who ascend this holy mount. Formerly it was requisite that they
should undergo a hundred days of purification ere commencing the ascent.
Towards the summit the path leads right through several small shrines,
in which the faithful may purchase small paper _goheis_ floating from
little sticks, which they plant in the lava as they ascend; and the
curious, whether faithful or not, can purchase odd pictures and maps of
Fujiyama, showing the various routes by which it may be ascended from
all sides of the country. By dint of great exertion, and with the help
of my faithful coolie, I managed to reach the summit at 5.30 A.M., just
in time to see all the companies of white-robed pilgrims kneeling to
adore the rising sun as his first rays gilded the mountain-top, and
chanting deep-toned litanies. It was a very striking scene, though at a
little distance the groups of white figures kneeling on the dark lava
were singularly suggestive of sea-birds nestling on some high rock—a
resemblance which was increased by their having removed their large
mushroom-shaped white hats and covered their heads with a white cloth.
I had been told that many women of all ages perform this pilgrimage. So
far from this being the case, among the many thousands of men whom we
met going and returning, I only observed two women—one very old and bent
almost double; the other a merry girl, who, like ourselves, seemed more
intent on the pleasure of the expedition than on the expiation of her
sins. The fact is, it was only in the latter half of the nineteenth
century that the law was annulled which forbade any woman to ascend the
holy mountain, so that it really is not customary for women to go.
Having chanted their sunrise orisons, the next care of the pilgrims is
to march in procession sun-wise round the crater, a distance of about
three miles. On descending the mountain, the more zealous repeat the
sun-wise circuit round the base of the cone, which of course implies a
very long additional walk. It is the same ceremony which I have
witnessed in many a remote corner of the earth—in Himalayan forests, or
round the huge _dogobas_ in the heart of Ceylon—and which we still trace
in many an old custom dating from prehistoric times, and not yet wholly
extinct in our own Scottish Highlands.
Being anxious to reach the western side of the crater in time to see the
vast triangular shadow frequently cast by the mountain at sunrise and at
sunset, I hastened round and had the good-fortune to witness an effect
precisely similar to what I had seen from the summit of Adam’s Peak in
Ceylon, and which I am told also occurs at Pike’s Peak, Colorado—namely,
a vast blue triangle, lying athwart land and sea and cloud, yet
apparently resting on the atmosphere, its outlines being unbroken by any
irregularity of hill or valley. It may be interesting to add that when I
witnessed this phenomenon in Ceylon, the edge of the triangle was tinged
with prismatic colours, giving the appearance of a triangular rainbow.
A magnificent panorama lay outstretched before us. The world below
appeared as a vast plain. On every side dreamy visions of far away
ocean, range beyond range of dwarfed mountains, wide expanses of level
green dotted with towns, gleaming lakes, and filmy vapours forming veils
which now and again hid some portion of the landscape from our sight;
and, in strong contrast with all this delicate distant colour, the
strong warm madder and chocolate tints of the lava foreground, melting
away into the hazy greens of the forest below, while here and there, on
some secluded spot, patches of last winter’s snow still lingered, soon
to be covered by a fresh fall.
All around us on the steep slopes of the cone were heaped up a multitude
of cairns of broken lava, memorials of many a pilgrim band—another link
in the chain of curious customs common to so many races. At short
intervals all round the crater are tiny shrines, where the devotees halt
for the observance of some religious rite of the Shinto faith. One of
these crowns the highest crag, and is conspicuous from afar by its
quaint wooden _torii_, a curious specimen of ecclesiastical
architecture, which forms the invariable gateway to every Shinto and
many Buddhist temples, but which to the irreverent foreigner is rather
suggestive of a gallows.
Another of these structures marks the spot where, on the edge of the
crater, a holy well yields pure cold water, with which the devout fill
their gourd-bottles, to be reverently carried home, together with large
bundles of charms, as a cure for all manner of ills. I have since noted
similar cold springs in the bed of the great extinct crater of
Haleakala, in the Sandwich Islands, and there is one near the summit of
Adam’s Peak.
I mentioned that one of my companions had already made the ascent of the
mountain several times. On each previous occasion the weather had been
so unpropitious that the whole scene had been shrouded in cold, grey
mist, and he could not even discern the outline of the crater which
yawned at his feet.
This morning the whole lay bathed in cloudless sunlight, and a clear
blue sky threw out yet more vividly the wonderfully varied colours of
the lava, great crags of which—red, claret, yellow, sienna, green, grey,
and lavender, purply and black—rose perpendicularly from out the deep
shadow, which still lay untouched by the morning light, in the depths of
the crater. I believe that in reality its depth does not exceed 500
feet, while its greatest length is estimated at 3000 feet, its width
1800. We best realised its size by noting the long lines of figures
(their large white hats giving those near us the appearance of
locomotive mushrooms), which became mere pin-points when seen against
the sky-line on the farther side. We only heard of one gentleman (a
foreigner, of course) who had made a descent into the crater itself.
Very peaceful and calm was the scene in that clear early morning,
without a sound save the tinkling of pilgrims’ bells. Yet, by the
frequent earthquakes which still cause the land to tremble, we know that
the fires which of old desolated this region still smoulder, and may at
any moment break out again, and repeat the story of 1707, which is the
date of the latest eruption. According to native traditions, this huge
volcano arose suddenly upwards of 2000 years ago, the date assigned
being B.C. 285. At the same time a mighty convulsion rent the earth near
Kioto, 300 miles to the southward, forming a chasm sixty miles long by
eighteen broad, in which now lie the blue waters of Lake Biwa.
The internal fires find vent at many points all over these fair green
isles, which are dotted with boiling springs and active volcanoes as
numerous as those which mark the Malay Archipelago, Lombok, Sumbawa,
Java, Sumatra, the Philippines—in short, all those isles which, with
Japan, form a chain along which volcanic action extends right up to the
shores of Kamskatka.
In Kiusiu alone there are five active volcanoes. Of one, near Nagasaki,
called the High Mountain of Warm Springs, noted for its hot sulphur
baths, the Japanese tell how, in 1793, the summit fell in, and torrents
of boiling water burst forth. On one occasion it overwhelmed the city of
Shima Barra, destroying 35,000 persons. We are also told of a mountain
fortress in the district which suddenly subsided, and the place where
the hill had stood became a lake.
There has scarcely been one century in which the national records have
not had occasion to record dire catastrophes caused by earthquakes or
volcanic eruptions. In fact there are historic records of no less than
231 eruptions, many being of appalling magnitude.
The latest eruption of FUJIYAMA was in A.D. 1707, when a mighty
earthquake shook the land, and the living fires forced open a new
chimney at three thousand feet below the summit, vomiting showers of
ashes, which fell at distances of one hundred miles. The cone thus
formed remains to this day, and is called Ho-yei-San. I confess I grudge
the honorific _San_ being applied to the unsightly lump which, as seen
from certain points, mars the otherwise faultless sweep of the perfect
outline.
One of the most active volcanoes in the group at the present day is that
of ASAMA-YAMA, which towers to a height of 8282 feet, and is always
capped by a cloud of heavy smoke, telling of the internal fires. For
just a century it had been comparatively quiet, and in the summer of
1783 the industrious people were gathering the abundant harvest of their
well-tilled corn-fields, when suddenly came the awful eruption of dense
showers of ashes and red-hot boulders and rock-masses, which brought
total destruction to upwards of fifty prosperous villages and their
inhabitants. Vast tracts of forest were burnt by the fiery lava-streams
which poured down the sides of the mountain, and for a radius of many
miles the whole country was smothered beneath a layer of ashes varying
from two to five feet in depth.
The year 1854–55 was marked by appalling activity of the internal
forces. The isle of Shikoku was shaken by an earthquake so terrific that
the solid earth heaved in waves like an angry sea. Innumerable fissures
were rent open, and from these gaping chasms mud and water were thrown
up. From the mountains fell vast avalanches of earth and rock, which
overwhelmed whole cities, and what escaped the landslips was destroyed
by fires which very naturally broke out in the ruins. Tidal waves swept
the shores and rushed up the rivers, doing appalling damage and flooding
the land. A Russian frigate which was lying off the coast of Idzu, in
Shimoda, was spun round and round forty times within half an hour, and
was then thrown ashore a total wreck. In one night seventy shocks were
counted. In the district of Tosa all dwelling-houses were either thrown
down or shaken to their foundations. The country for a space of four
hundred miles presented one widespread scene of desolation. In the
ensuing twelve months upwards of eight hundred distinct shocks were
experienced.
In 1855 occurred an earthquake so terrific that the city of Tokio was
well-nigh destroyed. Upwards of 14,000 dwelling-houses and 2000 strong
fireproof storehouses were destroyed. Multitudes of persons were crushed
in their own falling houses; others fell into clefts and chasms which
suddenly opened beneath their feet and swallowed them up. Then fire
spread and raged furiously, so that the city was made desolate, the dead
being variously estimated at from fifty to a hundred thousand.
1888 was marked by one of the most appalling eruptions that can possibly
be conceived, when on a calm peaceful summer morning, 15th June, without
any notice whatever, BANDAI-SAN, a mountain about 5800 feet in height,
after slumbering for eleven centuries, suddenly reawakened with such
terrific energy that it blew off one of its own huge cones, thereby
destroying thirty square miles of country and six hundred human beings.
So long had the volcano been at rest, that from base to summit, it was
clothed with richest vegetation, in the midst of which nestled
picturesque groups of châlets, clustering around the boiling springs
which attracted not only invalids, who came to bathe in the healing
waters, but pleasure-seekers who delighted in the lovely scenery.
Consequently in summer the usually small population of these pretty
villages was augmented to about eight thousand persons enjoying their
pleasant life, so full of graceful courtesies and pretty customs.
Asama-yama had done its work of destruction in 1783 in the ordinary
manner of dry volcanoes, by the ejection of molten rock and scoriæ, but
Bandai-San accomplished its terrible mission by the agency of steam,
which so effectually permeated the whole mass, that when the explosion
occurred, which suddenly in a moment blew the whole cone, as such, out
of existence, it fell over thirty square miles of country, in one awful
shower of scalding mud, burying a dozen villages, and causing the death
in agony of six hundred human beings, and of a multitude of animals,
besides involving total ruin to at least four times as many survivors,
of whom a considerable number were terribly injured.
All was calm and peaceful when, on that beautiful summer morning, the
happy people went out for their early bath at one or other of the hot
springs on the mountain; but at 7.30 they were startled by a violent
earthquake-shock. Another and another followed in rapid succession, the
earth heaving like a tossing sea, and then followed an appalling sound
as of the roar of a thousand thunder-claps, blending with the shriek of
all the steam-whistles and roaring steam-boilers of earth, and ere the
terrified and deafened human beings could recall their bewildered
senses, they beheld the whole mighty cone of Sho-Bandai-San (one of five
which crowned the mountain) blown bodily into the air, overspreading the
whole heavens with a vast, dense pall of mud-spray followed by dark
clouds of vapour and such stifling gases as well-nigh choked all living
creatures.
Then leaping tongues of infernal flame, crimson and purple, seemed to
flash right up to the heavens, and after appalling earth-throes, these
were succeeded by showers of red-hot ashes, sulphur, and boiling water,
accompanied by fearful subterranean roaring and rumbling, and by a
rushing whirlwind of hurricane force, uprooting great trees, and hurling
them afar.
Another moment, and there poured forth floods of boiling liquid mud,
which swept down the mountain-side with such velocity, that within ten
minutes the scalding torrent was rushing past a village ten miles down
the valley. The eruption continued for about two hours, till the awful
mud-wave had poured itself out, transforming thirty square miles of most
lovely country into a chaos of horror, the thick layer of horrid mud
varying in depth from ten to a hundred and fifty feet; and in places
suggesting a raging sea whose gigantic waves have suddenly been turned
to concrete. On every side reigned absolute desolation, with a horrid
smell rising from stagnant sulphur-pools, and the pretty villages and
courteous people lay buried deep beneath this hideous sea of mud.
Equally appalling in its suddenness was the awful earthquake which in
thirty seconds, in the early morning of 28th October 1891, desolated the
NAGOYA-GIFU and OGAKI plains, one of the most beautiful, fertile, and
thickly inhabited districts in Japan; Nagoya with a population of about
162,000, Gifu a busy manufacturing city with 14,083, and Ogaki with
10,522 kindly, industrious people—the last-named being chiefly known to
travellers on account of the excellence of its curiosity-shops. It is a
district of dark, rugged hills, with waterfalls, foaming rivers, rocky
bluffs, avenues of noble old pine trees, and beautiful sea-coast, varied
by level grassy plains and rich cultivation.
It was the one district in the whole of Japan which seemed to enjoy
complete immunity from all volcanic disturbances; but never was there a
ruder awakening to full knowledge of the awful changes which may be
wrought “in the twinkling of an eye,” than the awful thirty seconds
which (according to official returns, which are always minimised) caused
the death of 9968 persons, and grievous bodily injury to 100,000 more.
Buildings of every description fell, as though built of cards, sides of
mountains slipped down and dammed rivers, forming lakes and carrying
away bridges and miles of railway. The cost to Government was thirty
million dollars, but to private individuals the widespread ruin was
incalculable.
As regards results, this has probably been the most severe
earthquake-shock on record, even in Japan. Though the first few seconds
sufficed to accomplish a work of destruction probably without parallel,
the earth tremors continued from 28th October till 4th November,
accompanied by subterranean roaring.
Beyond a somewhat unusual stillness and warmth, there was absolutely no
premonition, when at 6.30 A.M. (when the sun had risen gloriously, and
workers were all astir) the solid earth seemed to upheave to a height of
three feet, and as suddenly sank down again, swaying sideways from east
to west and back, as though a giant nurse was violently rocking a
cradle! In every direction the earth was seamed with fissures, right
across the roads, some of unfathomable depth; from these spouted geysers
of boiling mud, or of volcanic sand.
The road from Nagoya to Gifu and Ogaki—which on that peaceful morning
had connected such a series of villages and small towns as to form an
almost continuous street twenty miles in length, all astir with
cheerful, kindly people—was at noon simply a narrow lane between
interminable piles of shattered woodwork, broken tiles, and fallen
thatch: all that had once been comfortable homes, and which in thousands
of cases formed the tomb of most of the family. As a matter of course,
numerous fires broke out, and consuming all wood and straw-work,
cremated numberless dead and wounded, and the smoke-laden air was heavy
with the stench, though this was far less horrible than in other places,
where mangled bodies lay inextricably imprisoned beneath heavy rafters,
and spread pestilence around.
Upwards of half a million persons were left homeless and in absolute
penury, as well as in direct mental and physical distress, mourning
their ten thousand dead, and the far larger number mutilated for life.
More than three thousand wells were totally destroyed, so that thirst
was added to starvation, notwithstanding the marvellous promptitude,
presence of mind, humanity, and power of organisation of the Japanese
officials, aided by the doctors and nurses from the foreign missionary
hospitals, in dealing with such widespread calamity.
With marvellous rapidity new houses were constructed, yet multitudes
were still homeless when snow fell to the depth of more than a foot, and
then bitter frost set in. Then came a rapid thaw, and the shattered
embankments of the rivers were wholly unable to withstand the rush of
roaring torrents, and so gave way, flooding large areas of country.
And to all these miseries was shortly added pestilence in the form of
virulent typhoid fever, bred of the stench of putrefying corpses and
polluted wells; and influenza likewise claimed many victims, who had to
battle with it under such terrible circumstances.
It is remarkable that, amid this wholesale destruction of all works of
man, so very few trees were overthrown, and in many places the homes, so
suddenly transformed to wholesale sepulchres, were overhung by
camellia-trees laden with rosy blossoms. Where the bodies of the dead
were buried, the first care of the survivors was to protect the grave
with hoops of slim bamboo, and adorn it with at least a section of
larger bamboo to serve as a vase in which to place a graceful spray of
chrysanthemum. For though the stone _torii_ and lanterns and pretty
bridges were all overthrown, the flowers blossomed gloriously as ever,
while in the fields the yellow rice seemed to bend under its weight of
grain, as if inviting the reaper—but no reapers were there, and the
appearance of the crops proved delusive, for the grain was light at
best, and was almost destroyed by severe gales.
Again in 1896, the sea-coast was swept by an appalling tidal wave which
was attributed to a submarine eruption. And so the tale goes on.
Scarcely a week passes in which a slight shock of earthquake is not
felt; so there is, of course, no certainty that such scenes of horror
may not at any time be repeated. Moreover, within a day’s march of the
mighty mountain lie the sulphurous boiling springs of O-ji-goku (_i.e._
the Great Hell), and, at no great distance in other directions, two sets
of hot springs, both bearing the name of Yumoto. And, looking down from
FUJIYAMA summit, far on the dreamy horizon I saw, or fancied I saw, a
faint indication of smoke from the active volcanic isle of Vries (or
Ashima), which lies just off the coast of Idzu. Such neighbours as these
make it impossible to ignore the probability that a day may come ere
long when Fuji-San shall awake from his sleep of a century and a half,
and may resume his crown of fire, as Vesuvius, Etna, Tarawara in New
Zealand and many another volcano, fondly assumed to be extinct, have
done ere now.
Vesuvius is said to have made such good use of 150 years of rest that,
at the time of the great eruption in A.D. 1306, not only were all its
slopes richly cultivated, but chestnut groves and pools of water had
sprung up within the crater. Here on the extreme summit of Fujiyama, we
have the water-springs, but no trace of vegetation, though a few blades
of grass have struggled into life within a very short distance of the
summit.
Whether fiery streams will ever again pour down the mountain-side and
burn their way through the green forests, we cannot prophesy. At
present, however, all seems quiet, and the mighty giant sleeps.
Having wandered leisurely round the crater I began to think of
breakfast, and, returning to my companions, found them and our followers
already in possession of one of a row of about a dozen small huts facing
the rising sun, erected as lodgings for the pilgrims. They are tiny
stone houses, partly scooped out of the cinder bank, the roof weighted
with heavy blocks of lava, to resist the force of wild tempests. There
is a small space artificially levelled in front of the huts from which
float numbers of the gay pilgrim flags already mentioned. Within each
hut is a small space neatly matted, and here, having spread the soft
warm quilts brought with us, I gladly lay down for an hour’s rest, while
my companions made the circuit of the crater. Our large sheets of oiled
paper were hung across as a curtain to shield us from the glare, and to
separate our corner from that where our host was cooking. Happily, in
mercy to our eyes, he had substituted charcoal for wood. I may mention,
by the way, that water here boils at 184° Fahr. Above my head, even in
this rude hut, was the invariable domestic shrine. Here, of course, it
was Shinto, and in addition to the usual sacred mirror of polished
metal, was a model of Fujiyama rudely hewn in lava.
Our quarters being as comfortable as could possibly be expected, it had
been our intention to spend the day and night quietly on the summit.
Unfortunately, however, our brother pilgrim, who on his previous ascents
had already suffered from mountain-sickness, produced by the rarified
air, was on this occasion so violently and continuously sick that it was
evidently necessary for him to descend at once. Both our Japanese
attendants likewise suffered, and asked leave to go back. They had
crushed sour pink plums on their temples, which seemed to us a novel
remedy, but is one much in favour in Japan. Had we but known it, nature
had provided a far more efficacious remedy in the snow-drifts of the
crater—bathing the temples with snow being the surest protection against
sickness and headache thus produced.
At first we two ladies decided on remaining by ourselves (having perfect
trust in our coolies), but unfortunately, after an interval of rest, I
too awoke feeling so sick, that, combining the chances of increasing
illness with that of bad weather on the morrow, it was voted better that
we should also return to the lower world—a decision which I now
sincerely regret, being convinced that my own indisposition was simply
momentary and due to over-fatigue. I am the more inclined to this belief
as two parties of our friends, fired by our example, made the pilgrimage
a few days later; each spent a night on the summit, coming in for grand
thunderstorms, torrents of rain, and a magnificent sunrise; but no one
complained of any tendency to sickness, though one stalwart Scot did
awaken with a headache, which, however, he attributed to the mountain
dew in which he had pledged his absent friends, and not to the mountain
air.
Our coolies once more shouldered their burdens, with an alacrity which
surprised us, and at 11.30 we regretfully took our last look at the
magnificent scene, and, already over-wearied, commenced the descent.
Large white clouds encompassed the base of the mountain, and floating
mists played about the summit, veiling the sun and shielding us from its
burning rays. Nevertheless, the descent was most exhausting, and seemed
never-ending. The path lay straight down the cone, over deep soft ash
and crumbly scoriæ, in which we sank over the ankles, and which kept
penetrating into our boots. We felt grateful to our pilgrim
predecessors, whose straw shoes strewed the earth in thousands, making
it somewhat better for us.
It was 4 P.M. when we reached the rest-house where we had left our
kangos, and much did we enjoy some good egg _saki_, as did also our
coolies, who, having made an excellent meal and transferred the luggage
to a packhorse which we were fortunate enough to secure, shouldered the
kangos, in which we wearily lay, and trotted off quite cheerily, only
halting to smoke beneath a fine old larch-tree, from the branches of
which hung innumerable pairs of old straw shoes, tied together and
thrown up for luck by the happy pilgrims whose task is accomplished, and
who have secured a store of merit and sanctity to last for years to
come. Our bearers added their sandals, and as many more as they could
find lying on the path, evidently considering it a good game. They then
trotted on down-hill to Subashiri, where we arrived about 5.30. This
time we found the good rooms reserved for us, and hot baths, the
advantage of which the Japanese so fully understand, were all ready.
These, followed by a good night’s rest, partly restored us, though I
confess I was stiff and aching for many days to come.
We spent the following morning in pleasant idleness at the old Shinto
temple, only doing a three hours’ evening march to Gotemba, whence we
proposed starting long before daylight. A message was, however, brought
to us that the police, who as a matter of course had demanded our
passports, refused to allow us to pass till we had been inspected by the
doctor, a ceremony which could not be performed till next day. This was
on account of the cholera panic.
Tired as we were, we concluded that the only thing to be done was to put
on our boots again and march in person to the police office, where our
healthy appearance, and extreme civility, so overawed two minute
policemen, that they allowed us to pass on unmolested. So at 3 A.M. the
good old landlady and cook were astir, to feed us and our coolies, and
at 4 we started in the dark. At one point the coolies evidently had a
great joke, and, laughing heartily but very silently, they ran as hard
as they could for about half a mile. We could not understand their fun
at the time, but afterwards discovered that we were passing the house of
the dreaded doctor, who might have detained us as he had done other
people.
The sun rose while we toiled up the Otomitonga Pass, and at every step
the view became more grand, as Fujiyama stood revealed, rising in
cloudless beauty from the vast intervening plain. Scarcely, however, had
we feasted our eyes on the lovely vision, of which I happily secured a
very careful sketch, when the mists uprose, and in a few moments not the
faintest suggestion of a mountain was visible, to the great grief of a
large party who toiled up the hill from Hakoni Lake, just too late to
see it.
We descended the pass, and, crossing the valley, made for a region known
as O-ji-goku, “the Great Hell,” where, in a hollow between two dark
wooded hills, the steam of boiling sulphur-springs rises ceaselessly
from a bare expanse of red, broken ground. Before reaching this spot we
arrived at the charmingly primitive tea-house of Sengoku Yu, in the
heart of the beautiful forest. The water from the boiling
sulphur-springs is brought down in bamboo pipes, and is here cooled in
simple but effective baths. One of these having been told off for our
exclusive use, screened, and placed under the guardianship of a pretty
Japanese boy, who, proud of his charge, sat on watch to keep off all
intruders, we were able to revel in peace, and did our best to boil away
all painful memories of our climb. Then, arrayed in cool Japanese
dresses, lent to us by our hostess, we were ready to enjoy a semi-native
supper. On the following morning we repeated our sulphur-bath, and
recommend the process to all future pilgrims.
Then, climbing the hill to make a nearer inspection of “the Great Hell,”
we tried various foolishly rash experiments in the way of tasting
sulphur, alum, and iron-springs, cooked our luncheon in one, and then,
braving the choking sulphurous fumes, which made us cough violently, we
inspected the process by which sulphur rock is pounded to a fine powder,
thrown into furnaces where it becomes a gas, and, passing through rude
retorts, drips in a deep orange-coloured fluid into large vessels, where
it becomes pure, solid sulphur, of a pale chrome colour, after which it
is made up in matted bundles and carried down the mountain on the backs
of little Japanese women, that it may finally reach Yokohama, and be
used in making medicinal baths.
With regard to the very unpleasant name given to the sulphur-producing
district, I may mention that in various parts of both the Northern and
Southern Isle we find the title of Ko-ji-koku or O-ji-goku, _i.e._ “the
Little or the Great Hell,” while one such spot in the neighbourhood of
Nagasaki is distinguished as the Chiū-to-Ji-goku, or “the Middle-Class
Hell.” One beautiful geyser in the neighbourhood of the latter is known
as the Dai-kiō-kwan, “the Loud Wailing,” as suggesting the anguish of
souls in Purgatory. Naturally the Buddhists, who exhaust all the
resources of art and language to depict the horrors of the seven hells,
were not likely to let slip so suggestive a natural illustration.
When I was at Nagasaki I had occasion to visit the courteous Roman
Catholic Bishop. While waiting, I had leisure to inspect sundry large,
coloured prints of Purgatory, the Day of Judgment, and Hell—a teaching
of terror; devils with pitchforks driving affrighted human beings into
pits of flame, and all fully described in Japanese. Having recently
visited the very realistic reproductions of the seven hells in many
Buddhist temples, I felt that there was little to choose between these
interpreters of the Great Hereafter.
Descending in a thick, soaking mist, we halted at the tea-house of
Obango, where a group of native travellers were listening in rapt
attention to a woman reciting, in an extraordinary voice down in her
throat, gurgling and cackling, and occasionally blowing through a shell,
or loudly tapping with her fan. She was apparently reciting some old
story, but none of our party could understand a word she said, as she
was speaking in a dialect almost obsolete, which few of the Japanese
themselves could follow. An hour’s row down the lovely Hakoni Lake
brought us to the village of the same name, where we found many friends
in pleasant summer quarters, and where the chief attraction of every
house and every walk lies in the view it commands of Fujiyama.
Here I spent a delightful fortnight with the Dyers, who were renting a
pretty Japanese house during the summer vacation. Every day we made
delightful expeditions to specially beautiful scenes, to visit
fascinating rural villages, quite untouched by the foreign element, and
we lingered beneath the shade of grand cryptomerias with an undergrowth
of bright blue hydrangeas, orange tiger-lilies, small lilac and white
lilies, and campanulas.
Remembering our pleasant sulphur-bath at Sengoku Yu, we went one day to
the sulphur-springs at Ashinoyu, which are more fashionable, and where
the whole air is tainted with the smell of sulphuretted hydrogen,
whereas at Sengoku Yu the baths have a clean smell of sulphurous acid.
So, leaving the town, I consoled myself by sketching a fine image of Dai
Butzu, sculptured on a rock on the hill above the village, returning by
a grand avenue of cryptomerias.
We witnessed a pathetic annual feast for the dead, when every house
spreads a variety of things good to eat before its domestic shrine.
These are for the spirits of all the hungry dead, not only their own
ancestors, but also the neglected spirits whose relatives are too poor
to provide food for them. This feast is laid out on many successive
days, and ends in a _matsuri_, _i.e._ one of those always attractive
general festivals.
It was tantalising to turn away from such varied beauty and interest,
but an invitation from Sir Harry Parkes to H.B.M. Legation at Tokio, to
witness an absolutely unique festival given by the people to the Mikado
and his American guests, General and Mrs. Ulysses Grant, was
irresistible, and so I bade adieu to beautiful Lake Hakoni and the many
friends there.
CHAPTER XVIII
The People entertain the Mikado and General Ulysses Grant—Return to San
Francisco.
H.B.M. LEGATION, TOKIO,
_August 26, 1879_.
MY DEAR FAMILY—My last letter to you was begun on the summit of
Fujiyama. Now this, my very last letter from Japan, is to tell you about
a very remarkable festival, which really will rank as quite an
historical event, being the first time that the Child of the Sun (the
Mikado) has been known to appear openly at any mere festivity, though he
has recently shown himself at some official ceremonies.
This was a grand entertainment at which the Mikado was the guest of his
people, and which was got up in order to show General Ulysses Grant of
America something of real old Japanese feats of arms. It was held in the
great park of Uyeno, which is at all times exceedingly beautiful, but is
now decorated like some fairy scene, while the masses of foliage make a
grand background for the countless thousands of Japanese spectators.
Sir Harry Parkes most considerately invited me to stay at the Legation,
and of course being his guest ensured my seeing everything to
perfection. And truly it is something to have seen the Son of Heaven,
that “spiritual Emperor” concerning whose hidden radiance we used to
hear such vague, misty statements, and who, only ten years ago, was
still considered too sacred for mortal eyes to look upon. I only wish we
could have seen him and all the Imperial Princes and great nobles in
their beautiful national dress, instead of the European uniform and
cocked hat which is so very unbecoming to them all.
Truth to say, personal beauty is not the strong point of the Emperor
Mutsuhito. He is a man of middle height (perhaps five feet eight), very
pale, with clear, dark eyes, well-shaped brow, and a slight moustache
and imperial. It is a very earnest, grave, sad face for so young a man
(he is only about thirty), but this is fully accounted for by all the
tremendous changes through which he has already passed, and in which he
has borne his part so wisely.
Moreover, he has had his full share of domestic trials, all his children
having died almost at their birth—a serious matter to the direct
descendant of the Sun-Goddess, who has not only to transmit this high
lineage to another generation, but also to raise up sons who can carry
on the ancestral worship. I was told last year that additions have
recently been made to the Imperial household, after the manner of
Jacob’s domestic circle, in the hopes that as Leah and Rachel were
provided with sons by proxy, so may the Empress Haruku be blessed.[68]
It was very touching to notice the appearance of extreme reverence with
which the assembled crowds awaited the moment when they might for one
moment look upon the sacred form of their Emperor. In those vast
multitudes all were quiet and orderly; they had decorated the city for
miles in his honour, and now they were waiting in breathless expectation
for his coming.
At several points he halted to receive addresses, but the chief interest
centred at one spot where many thousands of his oldest subjects, seated
on the ground, waited to do homage to their Imperial master. Two
thousand four hundred persons upwards of eighty years of age had been
gathered together from every corner of Tokio, and on each was bestowed a
gift in memory of this wonderful day—the very first occasion when a
Mikado had ever been entertained by his subjects.
What strange memories must have passed through the minds of many of this
great company of octogenarians, recollecting the marvellous waves of
change that have passed over the land since their early days—the tides
of war, the oppressive feudalism, the all-pervading military element,
the jealous exclusion of all foreign influence—and now, to see the
stupendous honours showered on a foreigner who was not even noble by
birth, simply an American citizen, but now received by the sacred Son of
Heaven as one for whom he could scarcely sufficiently mark his esteem,
and whose counsel he even deigned to seek.
Every street through which the honoured guests were expected to pass is
so decorated as to be equally attractive by day and by night. Thousands
of flags float from the eaves, showing the Rising Sun of Japan in
scarlet or crimson on a white ground, or _vicé-versâ_. All the principal
buildings, and various triumphal arches, are adorned with tiers of
bright paper lanterns, all of the same colour, with the same emblem,
while on either side of the streets, for a distance of several miles,
light fences have been erected, from which hang continuous rows of
lanterns, all alike representing the rising sun. In some places three or
four such rows are suspended, one above the other, and the effect
produced is excellent. These decorations extend in one direction for
four miles, all the way to the Shin Bashi (_i.e._ the new bridge), near
the railway station, and also the whole distance to the palace where
General Grant is living.
In Uyeno Park the lanterns are even more numerous and their decorative
effect far greater, for they hang in clusters of bright crimson from the
boughs of all the grand old trees, as if we had been transported to some
fairyland full of Christmas-trees, all laden with strange, jewelled
fruit. I am told that there are upwards of seventy thousand lanterns in
Uyeno Park alone! Here, too, there are light, airy fences to support the
long lines of lanterns which seem suspended in mid-air, and which are so
hung as to cross and recross one another again and again. This is a very
pretty device, all the more charming because so simple. At one point
there is a gigantic sun, entirely composed of crimson lanterns.
The great feature of the day was a grand tournament, at which some of
the old feudal sports were revived. Sad to say, these picturesque relics
of a PAST (which only ten years ago was THE PRESENT) are so rapidly
fading away that we were told there had been considerable difficulty in
finding men who were competent to exhibit their skill, so quickly has
their right hand forgot its cunning in these new utilitarian days when
every man must work hard for his daily bread. We were told that some of
those whose feats so amazed us all, had to be sought for amongst the
working population, and some were earning their living by hard toil,
running in the shafts of jinrikshas. Yet one and all ranked as
Hatamotos—that is to say, retainers of the Shogun—and as such were but a
few years ago entitled to lord it over all the civilians and burghers of
the city.
It is greatly to be feared that when these few men have passed away, the
last traces of old Japan and its chivalry will finally fade from the
earth. So I felt that I was indeed fortunate to have this opportunity of
even a glimpse of this ghost of olden days.
We were conducted to excellent seats in the grand stand, very near that
centre of light where (in a pavilion draped with stars and stripes,
mingled with rising suns, which also floated overhead) the Child of the
Sun and the Wellington of America sat together to witness the feats of
arms. These commenced with various fencing matches, which were only
remarkable for the real old Japanese dresses of the fencers, and the
hearty goodwill with which they smote one another with their spears, all
the time growling like wild beasts. Then we were shown how women used to
fight, some carrying a net, others a rope attached to a stone ball,
which they could fling round an adversary’s neck and so lasso him.
Happily all who took part in this great tournament wore the picturesque
dresses which have so recently been discarded. Close to us were a group
of men in antique yellow dress, with quaint, tall, dark head-dress, and
many others equally interesting. Just as the feats of arms began, the
essentially foreign band struck up, “Voici le sabre de mon père,” which
was certainly appropriate.
By far the most interesting feature of the day was the archery, which
was so accurate as to be quite wonderful. The archers were all mounted
on swift horses, with gay trappings, and enormous stirrups shaped like a
heavy wooden _sâbot_, but beautifully lacquered. The riders wore rich
dresses of various gay colours, and the wide trousers of the old
Samurai, over which fall large flaps of deer or tiger-skin, the latter
denoting high rank. Very wide-brimmed hats completed the costume, and
looked exceedingly uncomfortable as they were blown backward by the
wind.
At intervals round the course were placed men dressed in white, like
Shinto priests (probably they _were_ priests, as archery, like
wrestling, is so often connected with religious festivals), in charge of
three diamond-shaped targets. The archers approached one by one, their
horses naturally falling into a swinging gallop. Each rider stood erect
in his great stirrups, with bow bent and arrow poised, not pointing
ahead of him, but sideways, and at the very instant he passed the first
target, the shaft flew from the bow so swiftly that we literally could
not see its course, but in the twinkling of an eye, a shower of bright
fragments of sparkling tinsel fell from the split target, proving to all
far and near how true had been the archer’s aim.
As the horse galloped on, the archer snatched a second arrow from the
quiver which hung behind his shoulders, poised it, and again at the very
second of passing the second target the arrow flew, swift and unerring,
and again a shower of glittering tinsel certified his skill to the
unnumbered thousands of spectators, who had closed in around the course
like a living amphitheatre, and whose applause now rent the air.
Still the good steed, with neck outstretched, held on his headlong
career, the rider apparently paying no heed whatever to its guidance,
but keeping his own face turned at a right angle, while he rapidly
poised a third arrow, and once more drawing his bow, at the very instant
of passing the third target, a glittering shower once again proved to
the gazing multitude how infallible was his aim. Again thunders of
applause proved that the old intense sympathy with all knightly feats of
arms is not yet extinct in the hearts of the people.
As the first archer rode off the course he was succeeded by several
others; all of them, with only one exception, hit the targets every
time. We did feel so sorry for the man who failed, for such an ordeal as
the presence of the Mikado was in itself sufficient to make any loyal
subject nervous, and when one target was missed, it was scarcely
possible to recover sufficiently to take true aim for the others.
Nevertheless, even Japanese politeness could not silence a little murmur
of derision from the crowd.
The other competitors vied with one another in giving proofs of their
extraordinary dexterity—one man especially always held his arrow above
his head till he was actually opposite the target, and it seemed to the
onlookers as if he had certainly presumed too far on his skill. But no!
swifter than thought, he fitted the shaft, drew his bow, split the
target, and passed on to repeat the feat a second and a third time,
giving us some idea of what a terrible foe he would prove were his
arrows winged with deadly intent.
The archery was succeeded by various equestrian sports. A pretty feat,
which seemed to depend as much on skill in taking advantage of the
breeze as in actual horsemanship, consisted in so guiding the steed,
that a strip of bright cloth or ribbon (which at first lay rolled up on
a basket fastened to the back of the rider) gradually unwound itself,
till it floated as a streamer of about thirty feet in length; a streamer
which might never once touch the ground, however often the rider might
change his course.
Then we had an exhibition of hunting, which was not very lively. A
number of mounted huntsmen, armed with bows and blunted arrows, started
in pursuit of dogs, but these poor creatures had been so long in
captivity and so tightly tied up, that they had no energy even for
flight, but sneaked quietly off the scene the moment they were unbound.
So then canvas bags were fastened to a long rope and dragged round the
park by a horseman at full gallop, the others following in hot pursuit.
All the time these sports were going on, there had been a continuous
discharge of day fireworks, a very curious variety of pyrotechnics. A
sound as of a cannon called our attention to a sort of shell which was
shot heavenward, and there burst with a loud report, which was followed
by a shower of all manner of odd things—fans, miniature umbrellas, paper
handkerchiefs, and a great variety of ingenious paper ornaments.
Occasionally quite a large paper balloon appeared, gradually expanded,
and floated away into space; or showers of long ribbons of
bright-coloured paper came wriggling down like an army of flying
serpents. Paper fishes, too, seemed to swim, and birds and butterflies
to fly, with every varying current of air. Some of the shells were
filled with chemicals, and as they burst, the atmosphere was tinted by
films of many-coloured smoke.
At the close of this exhibition the Mikado withdrew in his handsome
European carriage, with mounted escort; and the Imperial Princes and
Princesses—the latter in their pretty national dress—with the Grant
party and other principal guests (which of course included Sir Harry
Parkes’s party), adjourned to dine in a large temporary building,
consisting of a circular platform with a roof supported by pillars, and
thatched with boughs of cryptomeria—very pretty. Here we had an
excellent dinner, while food on a gigantic scale was provided in the
park for the general public.
Afterwards we adjourned to another very pretty circular, temporary room,
which had been fitted up for the Mikado. His own beautiful
chrysanthemum-lacquer furniture had been removed immediately on his
departure, but a very fine screen of Japanese warriors remained, and all
round the room were flowers in pretty vases, gold-fish in flat dishes,
and the walls were draped with lilac cloth with pattern of gold
chrysanthemums.
As the twilight deepened, we all went to see the fireworks from stands
on the brink of the great lake, which (at all times beautiful) is now
covered with large pink and white lotus-blossoms. The whole edge of the
lake is outlined with white lanterns, while tier above tier rise lines
of crimson lanterns, marking different streets and tea-houses, all
reflected in the lake. The island on which stands Benten Sama’s temple,
was brilliantly illuminated, and thence the fireworks were let off, one
or two at a time. This went on for a couple of hours—pretty, but not
exciting.
Finally we had a stroll through the beautiful illuminated park, crowded
with happy people, and in all that multitude we did not see one person
drunk or in any way disorderly; and so ended a most interesting day,
aided by perfect weather. We came from the Legation in a procession of
sixteen jinrikshas, each drawn by two men, tandem, and preceded by a
mounted orderly. Our human ponies trotted at a brisk pace the whole five
miles, and seemed none the worse.
On board THE CITY OF TOKIO, _en route_ to San Francisco,
_19th September 1879_.
My last voyage to San Francisco was from Tahiti on board the _Paloma_, a
beautiful little brigantine, weighing 230 tons. We were six weeks
without once touching land, and the voyage, which ought to have been
about four thousand miles, proved to be fully six thousand. This was
chiefly due to a succession of calms, which left us quite at the mercy
of unaccountable currents, which carried us far out of our course, and
combined with the very irregular behaviour of the trade-winds in
baffling our onward progress by taking us far to the west, all of which
the Danish captain and his wife quite seriously attributed to my
perversity in writing letters on board. They said it always happens when
passengers _will_ write, and they knew how it would be as soon as they
saw my ink-bottle, which they would fain have thrown overboard.
Well, now I am on board a splendid Pacific mail-steamer 424 feet long
and weighing 5500 tons; weather perfect, and very pleasant companions. I
never more thoroughly enjoyed any voyage, or the sense of repose in
getting through three weeks without feeling obliged to go and see
ANYTHING—not even a school of porpoises! for all on board are old
travellers who have exhausted such novelties, and so do not disturb
themselves or their neighbours! Indeed, outside of our floating city
there has been little to see save a lovely calm sea, across which we
glide so steadily that I sit in my own cabin writing or painting all the
mornings. We have not seen even one sail since we cleared Yokohama
(about four thousand miles).
Our start from Yokohama was a very pretty scene, as the Japanese
authorities, who had arranged a succession of brilliant receptions for
General and Mrs. Grant from the moment of their landing in Nagasaki, did
not neglect to speed the departing of their warrior guest, whose fame as
a conquering hero appealed so vividly to all their own fighting
instincts.
So when the Grants embarked, they were escorted on board by a crowd of
naval officers in full uniform, with sword and cocked hat; and as we
steamed out of harbour, five foreign and many Japanese men-of-war, and
all the other ships, were dressed with flags; the men-of-war manned
yards and fired salutes. One Japanese man-of-war escorted us forty miles
down the Bay of Yeddo, then the men stood in pyramids up the ladders,
and cheered, and then fired the final salute, after which we settled
down to most enjoyable peace and quiet.
The feeding arrangements are excellent, and the dining-tables divided
into parties of ten, so that each is like a private dinner-table. I am
with the Grants at the Captain’s table, “Commodore” Maury—so called from
his being senior of the Pacific mail captains. He is an old U.S. naval
officer—a Southerner, and he and the General exchange interesting war
and other reminiscences and anecdotes, and indulge in much dry humour.
I am much interested by my various companions, and especially in the
American Wellington and his good wife, with both of whom I have become
great friends. We had met repeatedly in China. She is a very pleasant
old lady—affectionate and kind, and withal full of fun. Of course in
their grand tour round the world she has been entertained by a vast
number of celebrities, and what charms me is the perfect simplicity
retained both by herself and her beloved “Ulyss” (which is the wifely
form of Ulysses). They are quite unspoilt by all their amazing varieties
of fortune, and by the adulation which has been lavished upon them, and
it is very nice to hear the delight with which the old lady repeats some
instance of her General’s little thoughtfulnesses for “his sweetheart.”
It was an early love-match and long engagement, when he was a poor young
officer in the Mexican service, and she the daughter of a superior
farmer, who thought the young soldier was not good enough for his child,
and for a long time would not sanction the match. Finally Ulysses left
the army and joined his father, who was in business in the leather
trade. That did not answer, and for a while he lived with his
father-in-law, driving the cart to market to sell the farm produce. (I
am told all this by Americans on board.)
Then the war broke out, and his instincts at once led him to develop his
latent talent. He rose to distinction with wonderful rapidity, and
gained several important battles with armies of about half the numerical
strength of the Southerners. Finally he became, as you know,
Commander-in-Chief of the vast Northern army, and fought literally a
hundred battles.
Of course he was vilified and reviled by all the democratic party, even
during the eight years that he was President. But from all accounts he
has held steadily on the even tenour of his way, holding on a
wonderfully clean course, and doing his best to counteract the gross
corruption which seems to pervade every department of the Government.
PALACE HOTEL,
SAN FRANCISCO, _21st September 1879_.
It certainly has been a stroke of good-fortune that I should have
travelled with the Grants. This city has been mad with enthusiasm in
welcoming them back to America, and their reception yesterday was
stupendous. Though lacking the grace of Japanese artistic decoration,
there was a feeling of power that was very impressive.
As we entered “The Golden Gates,” which are the headlands at the mouth
of the great harbour, and three hours’ steam from the city, we were met
by two small steamers bringing the municipal authorities and many
officers to welcome the General. Two huge Pacific mail-steamers, each
with three thousand persons standing on deck and cheering with all their
might, also came, purposing to steam back all the way, one on each side
of our ship. Happily for us, the state of the tide did not allow of
their doing so! The whole route lay between closely-packed steamers,
yachts, and vessels of every description, all covered with flags, and
densely crowded with human beings, all waving handkerchiefs. The
continuous cheering was stupendous.
One odious steamer played a caliope, an atrocious sort of mechanical
organ, which the papers this morning justly describe as “devil’s music.”
All blew horrible steam-whistles, but their noise was outdone by that of
the artillery. The whole coast-line on each side of the harbour bristles
with forts, from which was poured forth an incessant cannonade. Volley
after volley reverberated among the hills, and the clouds of smoke were
lighted up with golden light from a gorgeous sunset behind us—truly
“Golden Gates”—while the city lay clear before us.
All this noise was deafening, and I for one was truly thankful when,
after much delay, we at length reached this gigantic hotel, in which a
thousand persons are now lodging, and all the neighbouring huge hotels
are equally full. This one is seven stories high, besides the ground
floor, with a “lift” at each corner, which works up and down
ceaselessly. The centre is a vast court into which carriages drive. It
is covered with a glass roof, and the seven corridors all look down into
it. These were densely crowded as the General drove in, and three
hundred voices sang a chorus of welcome with very long solos by a lady.
After much cheering, a good band played to solace the people while the
General dined, as they were determined to hear him speak, which at
length he did with characteristic brevity—even this morning’s papers can
only expand his words into four lines.
All the principal streets of the city are literally covered with flags,
which of course looks gay, but monotonous in the extreme, as the sole
idea has been to exhibit the national flag as many million times as
possible. From every house, every car, every omnibus, and across every
street, hung flags without number, but all without exception the
invariable Stars and Stripes. The General was escorted through all the
principal streets by a vast procession, representing all the principal
classes of the people, and divisions of the army, with banners bearing
their name. Federals and Confederates, Northerners and Southerners,
walked side by side, burying all enmities in this enthusiastic welcome.
The different bodies of cavalry were very fine, especially the
artillery, whose first detachment had fifty pure white horses, then a
corps of greys, then bays, etc. Then came a wild-looking Indian tracker,
who acted the part of out-rider to the carriage-and-six in which sat the
General with the Mayor of the city.
Red, blue, and white lights were burned as the procession passed,
lighting up all the tall spires and towers, and producing a weird effect
of beautiful colour. At last the tired General reached this great hotel,
to receive the aforesaid final welcome of the day. He and his family
have a full week’s work cut out for them till next Monday, when they go
to seek rest and peace in the Yosemite Valley amid the stillness of the
glorious Sierra Nevada.
On that day I am to sail for Honolulu and the great volcanoes, active
and dormant, under the especial charge of the Marshal of the Hawaiian
Isles, an American who has lived in the group for thirty-five years. I
was introduced to him (and to several other American Hawaiian families
now returning to the Isles) by Mr. Severance, the Hawaiian Consul here,
whose brother lives at Hilo, near the base of the active volcano.
I purpose spending a couple of months in the Isles, returning here just
in time to cross the great continent and spend Christmas with
Alastair[69] near Baltimore, and thence back to England, when the worst
of the winter is over.... Your loving sister,
C. F. G. C.
CHAPTER XIX
In the Hawaiian Isles—Spiritualism in Boston—Return to Britain—Invention
of the System of Easy Reading for Blind and Sighted Chinese.
“So long THY Power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.”
The programme sketched in my letter was exactly carried out. I spent two
intensely interesting months in the group which we used to call “The
Sandwich Isles,” and was most kindly received by many of the principal
people, including the King and Queen, his sisters, and the Dowager Queen
Emma; but especially by Mr. and Mrs. Severance at Hilo. Also by some of
the early American missionaries, who could tell me first-hand of the
marvellous changes they had witnessed in the Isles since the days when
the people first found courage to defy the wrath of the awful volcanic
deities who manifested their power in such terrible earnest.
Thrilling indeed it was to hear such histories from those white-haired
“fathers,” as they were lovingly called, who had borne so active a part
in the conversion of the whole race to a pure Christian faith. And
thrilling, too, to receive from eye-witnesses details of the successive
appalling eruptions of the volcano and hairbreadth escapes of the
people.
My visit to the active volcano was most happily timed, as I had the
good-fortune to see and paint a succession of very remarkable changes
within the bed of the great crater, and subsequently to obtain a
striking picture of the interior of the largest dormant crater in the
known world, strangely suggestive of the illustrations which scientific
artists produce of the face of the moon.
All I saw and heard is fully told in my book _Fire Fountains of
Hawaii_,[70] which to my own mind is perhaps the most interesting of my
varied travel notes.
Then once again I returned to San Francisco, my impressions of which,
and of the glorious Californian forests, are recorded in _Granite Crags
of California_ (Blackwood).
Christmas with my nephew and niece in Maryland, and a very quaintly
interesting New Year in Washington, were followed by a visit to
wonderful Niagara (which, however, from its flat surroundings, did not
entrance me, as did Yosemite in its apparent fall from heaven). Then
came a delightful visit to the Winthrops at Boston, where their charming
home was the centre of all the most cultivated society. There I had the
great pleasure of making acquaintance with Oliver Wendell Holmes, _The
Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table_, and Longfellow, who each invited me to
spend a most interesting day with them at their respective homes.
The latter showed me a tree close to his house, bearing an inscription
to say that beneath it Washington took command of the army. The house
itself was Washington’s headquarters. Mr. Holmes showed me admirable
large landscapes (framed) embroidered by his daughter-in-law with silk
on silk (I think). They are like very effective oil-paintings—certainly
a triumph of needlework.
Mr. Winthrop took me all over Harvard College and to everything else
that was best worth seeing. But one distinctive feature of Boston—as a
centre of spiritualism—he and his family refused to countenance in any
way. Nevertheless, as a traveller I felt that my acquaintance with
Boston would be incomplete without hearing something about it, and they
therefore most kindly commended me to the care of a gentleman who,
though himself knowing nothing about it, undertook to escort me and
several other inquisitive ladies to visit one of the innumerable
“mediums,” whose names and addresses are registered at a regular
business office.
Thither he went, and quite at random wrote down a few names of mediums,
including that of Mrs. Nikersen White, a delicate little fair-haired
lady, with whom he made an appointment for us on the following morning.
What that lady (who by no possibility could have known any of the
details on which she spoke to each of us) said to us in her pretty
sitting-room, in bright morning sunshine, I do not care to recall here.
Under the name “UNFATHOMED MYSTERIES,” I wrote an account of that
interview, which appeared in _Blackwood’s Magazine_ for May 1883, and it
has been reproduced in _Tales from Blackwood_, No. XI. I need only say
that the interview so haunted me, that had I been remaining in Boston, I
should have found it difficult to act on the advice of my hosts (which I
am certain was sound), to have nothing more to do with it. As it was, my
speedy departure for England counteracted the strong temptation to
return.
Of the strange termination of my voyage in being wrecked in the ss.
_Montana_ off Holyhead, I have spoken in chapter X., when telling of my
start for Ceylon on board the _Hindoo_, and how the _Montana_ had on
board the first and last passengers of that ill-fated vessel.
Afterwards, when from time to time news reached me of how the various
vessels by which I have travelled have finally met their fate, I wrote a
paper on SOME EVENTFUL VOYAGES,[71] which appeared in _Blackwood’s
Magazine_ for March 1890. It certainly gave me matter for thought
considering the many, many thousands of miles by land and sea, which I
have travelled in such safety.
Among the new friends whom I was privileged to make soon after my return
to England, few proved so congenial as Miss Marianne North, who had
travelled over so much of the same ground as I had done, and with the
same love for faithfully reproducing by her paint-brush everything of
interest. I had accumulated about five hundred large landscapes in
water-colour, and about as many more small ones. She had upwards of
eight hundred oil-paintings, in each of which the subject was an
admirable study of flowers, and the scenery in which they grew wild was
thrown in as the background.
Sir Joseph Hooker told me that her work was so absolutely accurate, that
he could at once identify any new plant or variety. It was therefore a
matter of national congratulation when she decided to present all her
pictures as a gift to the Botanical Gardens at Kew, and there herself to
build a gallery in which to exhibit them permanently.
When I first knew her, these only numbered about five hundred, and her
gallery was designed and built to show that number. But the craving to
see more and more of her beloved plants in their native homes was still
so strong, that she could not resist further arduous travels in tropical
forests, whence she returned with ruined health, but with about three
hundred more paintings, all of which she likewise presented to the
nation. Naturally, the wall-space which would have shown five hundred to
advantage was insufficient for eight hundred, and with grief I have
watched her actually cut down pictures (which, as I saw them one by one
in her pleasant studio, were most fascinating) to the size which space
would allow, without any isolation between the pictures except a narrow
line of frame. Of course such close proximity has lamentably spoilt the
effect of each. But nevertheless her grand gift has been an abiding joy
to thousands of visitors to the beautiful gardens at Kew.[72]
She was a gifted and noble woman, and her home was ever a
gathering-point for cultured and interesting people. But whether her
early and life-long intimacy with Darwin and various agnostic[73]
thinkers had resulted in her own happiness, is another question. She
always gave me the impression of being an exceedingly sad woman.
Many a time I have been inclined to regret that I did not follow her
example, and present my portfolios as a whole to the nation, as
illustrations of Greater Britain. Undoubtedly their real value was
collective, in presenting successively a number of realistic pictures of
each district in each country where I so long sojourned, and worked so
diligently.
But unless I had also been in a position to build and keep up a costly
gallery, as she had done, I knew of no means to secure a permanent
exhibition. So, after acting private show-woman till my portfolios had
become a weariness to me, I lent three or four hundred for a few months
at a time to various great exhibitions in different cities—notably the
great Indian and Colonial Exhibition in London, when each of our
colonies borrowed my portfolios of its own scenery, and generously
returned them to me in large frames, with heavy glass, whereby they
became to me a sort of white elephant, requiring stables.
All this involved a good deal of trouble, especially in re-arranging
catalogues, and no advantage whatever, beyond receiving a couple of
medals, from the Indian and Colonial, and the Forestry Exhibitions. (To
the latter I had contributed pictures of many of the largest or most
celebrated trees in the world.) So at last I made over about two hundred
and fifty of my most important pictures in India, Ceylon, New Zealand,
and the Fijian Isles to my eldest nephew, to be added to the family
travel-accumulations at Altyre and Gordonstoun. Many more are scattered
in the homes of other relations, leaving a more manageable series of
portfolios in my own hands, to be looked over on those very rare
occasions when a busy Present allows a little time to think over the
Past.
Two large portfolios containing sixty pictures in China have really
proved the most useful of all, as affording interesting illustrations of
scenes where our missionaries are at work in that great Empire, and as
such have occupied a definite place in twenty-five of the great
Missionary Exhibitions which within the last few years have been held in
many large cities. They thus help to draw attention to other exhibits of
the particular mission in which (as the final result of my far
wanderings) I have become most deeply interested.
This is what is commonly called “THE MISSION TO THE CHINESE BLIND,” a
title which only describes the primary phase of a very much more
important invention, namely, the application to the use of sighted
persons, of the same system by which the blind are so easily taught to
read and write. Those practical men who have taken the trouble to give
the invention a fair trial, all agree that it is destined to prove one
of the most valuable factors in the evangelisation of China by the
Chinese.
In order to understand its value, I must explain that one of the many
difficulties of mission-work in China is due to having no alphabet.
Instead of a simple A, B, C, there is a complicated ideograph to
represent each sound and each combination of sounds in the many dialects
of the vast empire.
It is said that in the classics of Confucius forty thousand different
ideographs are found. Happily, a knowledge of four thousand suffices to
enable a student to read such a book as our Bible; but to acquire even
these takes an average student about six years, and even when he has
attained some skill in reading, he has not begun to learn to write. It
is estimated that only about five per cent. of the men and one in two
hundred of the women in China are able to read, and these are persons of
some leisure.
But our Christian converts are all poor, hard-working people. It is in
China to-day as it was in Judea, when the Pharisees asked in derision,
“Have any of the rulers of the people believed on Christ?” None of the
rulers, but a very large number of the poor, and when once a Chinaman
does become a Christian, he does so heart and soul, and never rests till
he can persuade friends and neighbours to accept the same great Gift
which has gladdened his own life, albeit he is certain thereby sooner or
later to incur cruel persecution.
But he cannot give his neighbour a book and say, “Read this for
yourself,” for few indeed of the poor can read the difficult Chinese
characters. Hence the value of a system which will put very cheap books
in a very easy character into the hands of the poorest.
Let me give you a slight sketch of this work and of its origin. (I have
written more fully concerning it under the title _The Inventor of the
Numeral-Type for China_, printed by Gilbert and Rivington, St. John’s
House, Clerkenwell, London.) When the inventor, WILLIAM HILL MURRAY, was
a boy about nine years of age, his left arm was torn off by an accident
in a sawmill in Glasgow. Ere long he was employed as a rural postman,
carrying the mail-bag on his crippled shoulder eighteen miles daily, but
devoting his evenings to the study of Greek and Hebrew, and beguiling
his long daily tramp by the study of his Greek or Hebrew Testament.
After awhile he became convinced that in some way he was to work for
missions, so he applied to the National Bible Society of Scotland, who
employed him for seven years in selling portions of the Scriptures in
foreign languages to the crews of foreign vessels in the Clyde. All this
time he carried on his own education by rising at 3 A.M., and studying
in his humble attic till 8 A.M., when he went to the Old College for
classes till 10 A.M. Then his day of hard work as an open-air bookseller
began.
When for seven years he had thus proved his grit, the Society asked him
if he would go as a colporteur to North China. He accepted joyfully, and
putting his soul into the study of Chinese and its bewildering
ideograph, was soon able to commence work, when his exceeding courtesy
and unfailing good temper soon won him a favourable reception among a
race who have always something of reverence for everything literary.
Like every newcomer in China, he was amazed by the number of the blind
leading the blind, in doleful processions sometimes numbering from ten
to twenty, all making a hideous noise with cymbals and castanets, and
howling dismal ditties, which induce the hearers to give them
infinitesimal coin to bribe them to go and make their horrible music
elsewhere. Their great multitude is due to leprosy, neglected smallpox,
or ophthalmia, and largely to exceeding dirt.
As a general rule they bear a very bad character, but occasionally an
adult who has been a devout heathen becomes blind, and of course retains
the devout habit of mind. Now and then one of these amazed Mr. Hill
Murray by coming to buy a copy of “The Foreign Classic of Jesus” (as
they might have asked for the Classics of Confucius). They said that
they wished to possess the book, hoping that some one would read it to
them, as they wished to know what it was about.
Now, considering the exceeding poverty of these men, these purchases
were the more remarkable, and from that time Mr. Hill Murray ceaselessly
strove to devise some means by which the blind Chinese might be enabled
to read for themselves. Year after year he persevered, with small
encouragement from any one, for even other missionaries deemed the thing
quite impracticable. And for eight years all his efforts failed.
Then came the solution. As a Glasgow man, he had made his headquarters
beside Dr. Dudgeon, likewise a Glasgow man, then in charge of the
medical mission. Just about the time of Hill Murray’s arrival in Peking
a little blind baby had been added to that family, and of course became
the special pet of every one. When she was eight years old, a lady was
sent out from England to teach the little Scottish child to read by
means of Dr. Braille’s system of embossed dots, which represent the
alphabet, punctuation, and music.
Naturally Mr. Hill Murray quickly mastered these, but how could this
simple system be applied to China, which has no alphabet? As he prayed
for guiding, the thought was given to him: “Make the dots represent
numerals. Then write out all the sounds in use at Peking, with a numeral
under each, and in reading or writing only mark the number, and memory
will supply the corresponding sound.” So instead of reading A N D H E W
E N T U P, the dots all stand only for numbers, and the gliding finger
recognises 1, 26, 48, 94, 308, etc., and simultaneously the lips utter
in Chinese, AND HE WENT UP IN-TO AN EX-CEED-ING HIGH MOUNTAIN, _i.e._
one numeral suggests one sound.
Having completed this arrangement, Mr. Hill Murray selected four blind
men who were not lepers—a matter of some consequence in bringing them
under his own roof—but who were otherwise typical cases, their fingers
being either knotted with rheumatism or hardened by toil, and proceeded
to teach them. In less than three months those four poor blind beggars
could read and write fluently, far better than the majority of their
sighted countrymen could do after six years of study.
It is from this point that my interest in the subject dates, for at that
moment, quite unintentionally, I arrived not only in Peking, but
actually as a guest at the Medical Mission, where my hosts, Dr. and Mrs.
Dudgeon, assured me that three months earlier these four men were as
miserable and as ignorant as all the other blind men I saw begging in
the streets. Only a Chinaman can fully estimate the social rise involved
by such a literary triumph as the power of reading.
I said my journey to Peking was quite unintentional. In point of fact I
had so thoroughly enjoyed my five months in Southern China, from Canton
to Ningpo, that on my return to Shanghai I decided to make a clear run
thence to California on my homeward way, and I had actually secured my
ticket to Japan, _en route_ to San Francisco, when it really appeared as
if for some reason I HAD to go to Peking. All my friends in Shanghai
seemed to be seized with an unaccountable determination that I MUST go,
and though I vainly pleaded that it was a long and expensive journey,
and that, moreover, I had not the slightest wish to visit that dirty
city of “magnificent distances,” all my protestations were silenced,
till at last I consented to cancel my homeward ticket, and accompany a
very agreeable couple, who had just arrived from England, on their
return to Peking, and who most kindly undertook all the trouble of
making arrangements for me on the complicated voyage.
In the easy way in which, in those days, people in the East passed on
their friends to the assured hospitality of other friends, several of
the leading residents in Shanghai had consigned me to one of the
principal residents in Peking. Had I gone there I should most certainly
never have heard of the existence of my humble countryman, the crippled
street bookseller. But by one of those developments which men call
chance, a lady at Tientsin had occasion to send a special messenger to
the Medical Mission at Peking, and mentioned that I was on my way
thither, and so I was met by a heart-warming letter of welcome from Dr.
and Mrs. Dudgeon, inviting me to make their house my home for as long as
I cared to stay in Peking.
Thus it was that, arriving there on 5th June 1879, just when Mr. Hill
Murray’s first four blind students had mastered his system, I became an
eye and ear-witness of the perfect success of this very remarkable
invention. In fact I stood, as it were, at the fountainhead of that
which I now believe is destined to be a great river of the Water of Life
for millions yet unborn in the great Chinese Empire.
But I did not at the time realise how very wonderful it was, nor dreamt
of its infinitely wider value when it should be applied to the use of
illiterate sighted persons. I was absolutely bewildered by all the
varied novelties to be seen in and around Peking. Then I returned to
Japan for six months, and thence to the Hawaiian volcanoes, so it was
not till, in 1885, when I found leisure to write my _Wanderings in
China_, that it occurred to me to wonder how the teaching of the blind
was progressing. On inquiry I learnt with surprise that Mr. Hill Murray
was still known only as a very good colporteur who had a curious fad for
looking after blind people.
So the development of the work was still left entirely to the
self-denying efforts of a working-man, who (with just one gift from a
friend in Glasgow) had contrived, off the meagre salary intended to
support one man, to lodge, feed, and clothe upwards of a dozen men and
boys. The latter, having become blind through neglect in smallpox, had
been cast by their relatives into foul pools, there to suffocate in
filthy black mud. When washed, fed, and comforted, these small lads were
taught to read to the sick men in hospital, who never wearied of hearing
the little fellows, who read so fluently with the tips of their fingers.
One of these salvage boys actually started the School for Blind Women,
for, being under eight years of age, he was admitted to the women’s part
of a house in which a blind woman longed to acquire this wonderful new
art, which she could not possibly have been taught direct by Mr. Hill
Murray. But the small boy taught her to read, write, and play the
concertina, and then she announced her willingness to teach other blind
women, and I know of at least two women who separately persuaded their
relatives to bring them a whole month’s journey day by day in the depth
of winter, on a horribly uncomfortable Chinese wheelbarrow, jolting over
the rough, frozen rice-fields, that they might be taught by her to read
the Scriptures, and thus enriched, return to teach others in their own
villages.
In this interval Mr. Hill Murray had also devised an adaptation of the
Tonic Sol-Fa in numerals, by which he taught all his pupils to read and
write music, and also to play the accompaniments of about two hundred
hymns on harmoniums and American organs, which he had contrived to buy
very cheap, as being quite worthless. But, getting a Chinaman with two
hands to help his one hand, they replaced the rusty wires, the split
reeds, and decayed felts and leathers, and produced instruments on which
this self-taught musician taught his blind pupils so efficiently that a
number of them are now organists at different mission-stations.
When at last I realised in how great a measure this remarkable work was
still dependent on the small earnings of the inventor, then for the
first time I understood why I had been constrained to end my prolonged
aimless travels by making that journey to Peking so entirely against my
own inclination. Also, why it had been so ordered that I became a guest
at the Medical Mission at the very moment when Mr. Hill Murray’s eight
years of earnest endeavours on behalf of the blind had been so signally
crowned with success. If we believe at all in the daily guiding of our
lives, even in smallest details, as I emphatically do believe, I could
not doubt that it was clearly my duty and my privilege to tell the story
of this earnest worker, and so enable his countrymen and countrywomen to
share the honour of helping him to carry out his beneficent projects.
I accordingly did so, with such success that ere long his tiny school
was placed on a more satisfactory footing, a good business committee
undertook to do their part in forwarding his views, and arranged with
the National Bible Society that, while still devoting one-third of his
time to street bookselling (in order to keep his influence with the
people, and avoid the danger of their attributing his work for the blind
to evil magic), he should be able to employ the remainder of his time in
developing his special work.
Thus for ten years from the date of my visit to Peking we knew only that
he was engaged in a very interesting work on behalf of the blind.
But in 1889 some poor sighted Christians came to him, and urged him to
devise some easy method by which they also might learn to read rapidly,
as they could not possibly give the time, even if they had the ability,
to master the complicated Chinese characters. Very sorrowfully he
explained to them that the dots could only be felt by the finger, and
were useless to those who would read by the eyes.
In his grave perplexity he made it a matter of earnest prayer that God
would guide him to some means by which he might help these people who
did so wish to learn to read. Then in direct answer to his prayer the
thought seemed flashed into his mind, “JUST CONNECT THE DOTS BY STRAIGHT
BLACK LINES.” That was all—a very simple thought, but one which solved
the whole difficulty. By so doing, he produced a series of lines,
angles, and squares, forming the simplest set of symbols ever devised
for use in any country.
He at once realised that this was a distinct revelation for the good of
the illiterate sighted, and as soon as possible he got these simple
forms cast in metal printing-type, and gave them to his blind students,
who were embossing the Scriptures for their own use. They at once
recognised them as being their own symbols, but asked why lines had been
used instead of dots? “Because,” said Mr. Hill Murray, “YOU ARE NOW
GOING TO PRINT BOOKS FOR SIGHTED PERSONS, AND YOU WILL TEACH THEM TO
READ FROM THESE BOOKS.”
And this has proved a wonderful success. The neat-fingered blind
compositors set up the type, and when the book, perhaps one of the
Gospels, was printed, a blind man or a blind girl took a class of
perhaps a dozen sighted persons, quite ignorant field-workers or others,
and in periods ranging from six weeks to three months all would be able
to read and write, and could return to their villages to teach others,
who in their turn could carry on the chain of blessing to more remote
villages, carrying with them the cheap paper-bound books printed at the
blind school.
Now it is evident that if Mr. Hill Murray had in the first instance
tried to help the illiterate, he would certainly have experimented with
the alphabetic curved forms—so dear to us, but so obnoxious to the
Chinese, and which, moreover, would have to be adapted separately for
every variety of dialect. BUT BECAUSE HE HAD BEEN GUIDED TO WORK FIRST
FOR THE BLIND, HE HAD OF NECESSITY USED BRAILLE’S SYMBOLS, WHICH, BEING
FILLED IN WITH LINES, PRODUCE THE SIMPLEST SET OF GEOMETRIC FIGURES, AND
THESE HE HAD USED TO DENOTE NUMERALS, AND BOTH GEOMETRIC FIGURES AND
NUMERALS ARE HELD IN REVERENCE BY THE CHINESE.
Thus he was guided not only to adopt the simplest possible square and
angular forms, but these are also symbols which the people are naturally
inclined to revere.
Further, he was signally guided in having adapted his system to that
dialect of Mandarin Chinese which is spoken at Peking. For although
about three hundred and eighteen millions of the people talk Mandarin
dialects, these vary greatly in different parts of the Empire, and had
Mr. Hill Murray begun to work in any other part, even of
Mandarin-speaking China, he would have found a different number of
sounds. But from his being led to begin work at Peking, he of course
ADAPTED HIS SYSTEM TO PEKINGESE MANDARIN, AND AFTERWARDS DISCOVERED THAT
IT IS THE RECOGNISED STANDARD FOR THE WHOLE EMPIRE.
(About eighty-four million persons, chiefly along the south-east coast,
speak non-Mandarin dialects, so different from one another that each
requires a separate version of the Bible, which has been printed for
their use by the great Bible societies in the Roman alphabet, and this
the converts do learn, notwithstanding their natural repugnance to it.)
Mr. Hill Murray’s conviction is that by his system one version, with
slight modifications for certain provinces, can be used wherever
Mandarin is spoken. Of course it has opponents among missionaries who
have already agonised over having to learn the four thousand essential
Chinese characters, and would much prefer that the illiterate converts
should have to learn to read by the alphabet, than that they themselves
should have the trouble of learning the numeral system.
On the other hand, those missionaries who have given the numeral system
a fair trial, are unanimous in their praise of it, and if any one is
sufficiently interested by this brief outline to care to know more, if
he will send 1s. 9d. to my printers, Messrs. Gilbert and Rivington (as
aforesaid), he will receive my little “yellow book,” and on pages 139 to
160 he will find the testimony of many men who have used the system and
pronounce it an unqualified success.
Some of its strongest advocates are workers in Manchuria, where the last
thirty years have wrought such great progress in Christian work. At that
time there were virtually no Christians in that great province. Mr. Hill
Murray had the gladness of selling the very first copy of the Scriptures
which was carried thither by Mr. Wang, who became instrumental in
beginning to arouse attention. Then a small medical mission was
established, and from that centre the light radiated. By the year 1900
there were fully twenty-five thousand staunch Manchurian Christians, and
upwards of a thousand of these who, one by one, came to the missionaries
to ask for baptism stated that their conversion was due to the teaching
and example of one of the blind men trained by Mr. Hill Murray.
The story of that man is very striking. He was known as Chang, the Blind
Apostle of Manchuria. Alas! we now have to say “Apostle and Martyr.” He
was one of those who came to the Medical Mission at Moukden to see
whether his sight could be restored. That was impossible, but he opened
his whole heart to receive the teaching there given. He said, “I have
been all my life studying the systems of Taou, Buddha, and Confucius,
and there is not a grain of comfort in one of them. But to hear of a
Friend who cares for me is very different. I will be His servant for
ever.” Very soon he craved baptism. But a lengthened probation is always
required, and six months elapsed ere it was possible to follow him to
his mountain home. During that time, he preached his new faith so
earnestly that a considerable number of his neighbours desired to be
baptized with him. Nine were so unmistakably in earnest, that they were
received with him. Others were required to wait for further instruction.
His friend (the Rev. James Webster) said to Chang that he feared he had
already been subjected to considerable persecution for his faith, but he
replied that it was not worth speaking about, he had been so cheered by
a wonderful dream. “A dream? what was it?” Then he told how he had
dreamt that his Lord had appeared to him in radiant light, had put a
book in his hand, and then vanished. He added: “Of course I know it was
only a dream, but it was so vivid that it has been a real comfort to
me.”
His friend had the presence of mind to reply, “It was no dream; it was a
true vision, for THE BOOK is now put into the hands of the blind, but in
all Manchuria there is no one competent to teach you to read it. If you
are going on teaching others, you must go all the way to Peking to be
taught to read.”
It was a wearily long journey for a blind man. A hundred miles on foot
through the forests back to Moukden; then by boat down the river to the
sea-coast, thence by ship across the Yellow Sea, then hiring another
boat to go up the Peiho to Peking. But the blind man faced it all,
chiefly to please Mr. Webster, for he did not believe that he could
really be taught to read. But like the others, within three months he
could read, write, and play the concertina to accompany the hymns he
loved to sing.
Mr. Hill Murray tried to persuade him to stay at Peking for a course of
theological training. But he replied, “I would love to stay with you to
learn all that you can teach me, but none of my people in Manchuria ever
heard about JESUS and HIS offer of the gift of Eternal Life, and now
that I know this, do you think I can keep it to myself? No, I must go
and tell my people.” So he returned to Manchuria, and thenceforward till
the day of his martyrdom he never ceased going up and down the steep
mountain-passes, feeling his way along difficult mountain-paths and
visiting all the villages hidden in the valleys. He preached with such
earnestness that, as I said just now, upwards of a thousand men came one
by one to ask for baptism, because they were convinced from Chang’s life
that his teaching must be good.
His marvellous memory helped him right well, for as he constantly read
the Holy Scriptures with his finger-tips, he seemed to see the very
words ever before him, and he not only knew by heart the whole of the
New Testament, the Psalms, and several other books of the Old Testament,
and the two hundred and forty hymns in the hymn-book, but if you named
any chapter and verses, he could at once begin at the right verse, and
quote faultlessly to the exact word indicated.
Of course he was a very marked man, and as soon as the Boxers came to
his village they seized him, and with him a young sighted Christian,
who, however, could not face all the horrors and the bloodshed. So he
burnt the little stick of incense at Buddha’s shrine, and they let him
go. He had thereby denied the faith. But old blind Chang stood stedfast.
They forced him on to his knees, and bade him worship Buddha. He said:
“I am on my knees, but not to that idol. I am kneeling to my Lord
Jesus.” Then one took a sword and cut off his head, and then they
chopped up his body into bits, that in the spirit-world it might be
recognised as that of a malefactor decapitated and mutilated—a doom of
terror in the eyes of all except decided Christians.
Through much opposition and amid many difficulties Mr. Hill Murray held
calmly on his way, gradually developing his system, and as home interest
increased, we were at length able to secure really good old Chinese
houses, which were transformed into good schools for blind men and blind
women. There we had good printing-presses, where all were busily at
work, useful and happy. Then in an evil hour came the Boxer troubles.
Happily Mrs. Hill Murray and her children were not in Peking during that
awful siege. The four eldest were at Bishop Scott’s school for
missionaries’ children at Tientsin, and were with the Bishop and Mrs.
Scott during the bombardment of that city. Their parents and the younger
children were at the sea-coast, whence Mr. Murray hurried back to Peking
to be with his poor blind people.
The Mandarins came and told him that if he was found there by the
Boxers, his presence would inevitably lead to a general massacre, but
that if he would join the other foreigners at the British Legation, they
would put Chinese soldiers to guard his schools and all would be well.
Having no option in the matter, he obeyed, and shared in all the horrors
of that appalling nine weeks’ siege, the memory of which must for ever
haunt all who survived it.
But even in that awful time there were gleams of wondrous light for
those who looked for them, such as in that hour of direst peril, when
the Chinese in their mad determination to destroy the foreigners,
resolved to set fire to their own most precious national library, the
Hanlin, which was so situated that, should it catch fire while the wind
was blowing from that quarter, the fate of the British Legation was
inevitable. As a measure of self-defence, that building should have been
at once destroyed, but reverence for its antiquity and for the national
archives therein stored made the besieged resolve to spare it, feeling
convinced that the Chinese would likewise endeavour to save it from
harm.
So they could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw the besiegers
commence piling cases all round the building, which were unmistakably
cases of kerosene! Soon a strong wind set in from that quarter; and when
they saw a Chinaman deliberately set these on fire, all felt that their
doom was sealed. Another moment, and with a wild, rushing sound the
flames commenced sweeping towards the Legation. Then those who believed
that even then, HE, at WHOSE bidding the raging wind and the waves of
Gennesaret were stilled, could stay the progress of the flames, united
in a brief agonised prayer—such real prayer of faith as perhaps does not
often rise to heaven.
Suddenly the wild roaring of the wind and flames ceased, the flames rose
straight to heaven, not a breath stirred, there was a great calm. Even
those whose prayer had so mightily availed looked one to another,
bewildered—all were bewildered. Then once more the soughing of the wind
recommenced. What did it forebode? Were they after all to perish by
fire? No! THE WIND DID INDEED RISE AGAIN, BUT FROM QUITE ANOTHER
QUARTER, CARRYING THE FLAMES RIGHT AWAY FROM THE LEGATION, WHICH WAS
THUS MIRACULOUSLY SAVED. The great Answerer of Prayer had once more
proved “a very present help in time of trouble.”
The secular papers (and some who might have known better than to be
ashamed of giving the only clue to this story of a great deliverance)
all described this hour of awful peril, and all added: “At this moment,
when destruction appeared inevitable, A TOTALLY UNACCOUNTABLE CHANGE OF
THE WIND carried the flames in a new direction, and the danger was
averted.” I suppose many answers to believing prayer do appear
unaccountable to those who only see results.
But although these lives were spared, doubtless to accomplish special
work on earth, the great enemy was allowed to triumph appallingly in
other places. Upwards of two hundred European and American missionaries,
and according to the lowest computation, fully twenty thousand Chinese,
who were either Christians or closely associated with them, were
barbarously put to death.
Often as we repeat in the _Te Deum_, “The noble army of martyrs praise
Thee,” do we ever give a thought to the Chinese contingent of twenty
thousand added to that army in A.D. 1900? and to the thousands of
Japanese martyrs prior to the year 1870 (in which year eight hundred
families of Christians were scattered and deported from lovely Nagasaki
to bleak districts in the Northern Isle, one and all expressing their
determination to die, as so many of their brave countrymen and women had
already done, sooner than abjure the Christian religion).
When the arrival of the allies enabled the besieged missionaries to
go forth to their homes, they found nothing but ruin and
desolation—churches and schools totally destroyed, and converts
massacred. Mr. Hill Murray found only blackened earth to mark the
spot where his flourishing schools and printing-presses had stood.
The Chinese soldiers placed to guard them had decamped on the
approach of the Boxers, who had rushed in and martyred all the blind
women and girls, and as many as they could catch of the blind men.
Some of the latter mercifully escaped. When they had thoroughly
ransacked and plundered the mission-house, and destroyed what they
could not remove, they set fire to the whole, and the beautiful
carved wood and other well-seasoned timber of the old Chinese houses
formed a funeral-pyre which utterly consumed every vestige of the
massacres.
Then all foreigners who could possibly be spared, left Peking in search
of much-needed change and rest. But sorely as he, too, needed it, Mr.
Hill Murray utterly refused to leave the city of awful death till he had
hunted through its slums for any of his blind men who might be in
hiding. In order to prepare a home to which to bring them, he took
possession of an empty, deserted house, and there established himself
under protection of the Union Jack. After months of patient search he
found, one by one, about seven of his blind men, and two or three of his
sighted helpers, and also learned that two of his blind men had made
their way safely fully three hundred miles across country haunted by
Boxers, straight back to their own villages.
All this time he was carrying on very troublesome negotiations with the
leading Mandarins, to secure new premises in which to re-establish his
work. This was only accomplished by their anxiety to induce him to
vacate the house he occupied, which proved to be Imperial property. He
was kept perpetually going to and fro over the huge city, exhausted by
suffocating, midsummer heat, and constantly exposed to such pitiless
rain that for four months he never knew the luxury of dry clothes. This
brought on torturing neuralgia in the head, and such excruciating agony
in the right eye that for months he was unable to read or write.
Still he struggled on, till at last he secured suitable Chinese houses
which could be adapted to his purpose. He had also the satisfaction of
receiving from Shanghai a case of numeral-type which we had just sent
out from Edinburgh, and which we feared had been melted down for
bullets! He also succeeded in buying a small printing-press from
Shanghai, and forthwith setting his men to work. And so the first book
printed in Peking after the Reign of Terror was an edition of a thousand
copies of the Gospel of St. John for sighted persons, printed in
Murray’s numeral-type, by blind survivors.
Truly pathetic was the joy of many of the recipients who had lost
everything they possessed, including their precious books, but who in
several instances had written out large portions of the Gospels from
memory, and were actually teaching some of their neighbours to read from
these manuscripts!
At length, when he had got his new premises and the poor remnant of his
scholars into thorough working order, Mr. Hill Murray quite broke down,
and was sent to London by the doctor, to see what could be done for him.
Of course the first care was for his precious sight, and he was received
as an in-patient at the Royal Eye Hospital in the City Road. Alas! it
was at once pronounced that the excruciating agony he had so bravely
endured, was due to _glaucōma_, and that it had left the right eye
totally blind, and the left seriously damaged, and exposed to the future
danger of a similar attack of _glaucōma_—a most pathetic result of his
devoted care for his blind pupils.
That poor dimmed eye is an abiding badge of heroism. Never was V.C. more
gallantly won in the service of poor, defenceless creatures, than this
most honourable scar. Had Mr. Hill Murray left Peking to seek treatment
when the agony commenced, the sight of the right eye might probably have
been saved. But had he once vacated the deserted house which he occupied
and held as a hostage for the three burnt properties of the Mission, he
would have lost his hold on the Mandarins, who would not have helped him
to secure new premises, except to induce him to remove himself and his
blind men from that house. But this great gain to his Mission has proved
for himself a dearly-bought triumph.
The three months of awful anxiety, followed by many months of hardship
and privation, had proved well-nigh as calamitous to his wife’s health
as to his own, but the terrible expense of the journey for so large a
family made her resolve to remain in China with her children. Soon,
however, she broke down so completely that the doctor shipped the whole
party to London, whence they all came to Scotland, to Joppa—a seaside
suburb of Edinburgh, where a year of Scottish sea breezes wrought such
wonders for them all, that a twelvemonth later the whole party, father,
mother, seven children, and two young men, practical printers, sailed to
recommence work at Peking.
We can only hope that, as for the last fifty years Mr. Hill Murray has
done more work for his fellow-men with one arm than most people do with
two, so he may be enabled with the partial sight of one eye to continue
his work of blessing for China’s millions. I felt it inexpressibly
pathetic to see him gazing wistfully at his happy, bonnie bairns, with
all their life before them, and taking comfort in the thought that if he
MUST face the possibility of a trial so awful as that of total
blindness, he has seven pairs of bright young eyes to see for him.
It had been supposed that it would be deemed desirable to leave the
elder children in Scotland, and it had been a matter of serious anxiety
how to get them disposed of. Happily the parents soon solved that
difficulty by their determination not to part from even one of their
flock. For they said: “They were all given to us in China, and we must
take them back to China, there to train them all to work for China.” And
this was the wish of all those little Scottish children, who claim China
as their loved native land, and longed to return to their dear Chinese
friends, both blind and sighted. Thus they will retain their valuable
birthright, which is a perfect knowledge of the purest Mandarin Chinese,
and they all hope as they grow up, to be of real use in developing their
father’s schemes for benefiting the illiterate classes of China.
Can you wonder that, from having been an eyewitness of this work from
its very beginning, and having for the last fifteen years been in
constant correspondence with all concerned in it, it has become to me an
ever-increasing source of interest, both as regards its extension in
China and the endeavour to increase PRACTICAL interest in it in this
country. As I have already said, any one desiring further information
can obtain it by sending for my “yellow book,” _The Inventor of the
Numeral-Type for China_, and subscriptions in aid of any branch of the
work will be welcomed either by the OFFICIAL TREASURER, JAMES DRUMMOND,
ESQ., CHARTERED ACCOUNTANT, 58 BATH STREET, GLASGOW; or by me, MISS C.
F. GORDON-CUMMING, COLLEGE HOUSE, CRIEFF, SCOTLAND.
For as the very extensive correspondence connected with this work makes
it necessary for me to have a permanent address from which my letters
can be daily forwarded, I some years ago secured a couple of rooms at
Crieff, in a house which has the merit of being probably the oldest in
that little town, and into these I have crammed so many of my travel
treasures and home pictures, as to be continual reminders of a larger
past. And here I can test to the full that power of adaptation to
circumstances which has stood me in such good stead in many lands (as it
did to St. Paul in his more serious variations!)
In chapter ix. I have chronicled the events which led a very dear sister
to make her home in Perthshire. On my return from my prolonged travels,
that home became my headquarters. At that time Crieff (which has now
become such a centre of attraction to summer visitors) was quite a small
town, and pleasant open fields and shady lanes, overshadowed by fine old
trees, extended in every direction; now most of the noble trees have
been felled, and the quiet lanes are replaced by terraces of comfortable
villas and small gardens, extending along the face of “the Knock,” so
that there are few houses which do not command a fine view of either the
Grampians or the Ochils.
Of all these houses, few are externally so unpromising as the ugly block
of buildings at the top of the High Street known as “College Buildings”
and entered from the street. They are as hideous as plaster and brown
paint can make them—only from one attic window can we see one side of
the tower, which has been spared by the plasterers, and reveals the fine
rough blocks of red sandstone of which the college was built. We enter
from the street, but so suddenly does the ground fall, that the back
windows command the finest and most extensive view of Strath Earn,
bounded on the horizon by the whole low range of the Ochils, stretching
right from east to west.
The attention of strangers is often arrested by the ugly painted tower,
capped by a small spire, and also by a church window, which looks
strangely incongruous at the end of a wing, now transformed into a
number of small flats, but any inquiry as to their origin will only
elicit the information that it was once a ladies’ college. In order to
rescue an interesting history from oblivion, I have noted the following
details from the lips of one who lived in the college fifty years ago,
and was vividly interested in all concerning it.
Its excellent site was selected towards the close of the eighteenth
century by Dr. Malcolm, who thereon built a central house, with wings on
either side, as a college for medical students. A high wall enclosed the
large garden, sloping to the south, and forming the foreground to the
grand panorama beyond. So the young men studied amid pleasant
surroundings, but at Dr. Malcolm’s death the college was broken up. The
buildings, however, long retained the name of “Malcolm’s Houses,” and
the garden wall was known as “Malcolm’s Wall.”
The side wings of what had been the medical college were now divided
into sets of two rooms, eight on each side of the central building.
These were tenanted by sixteen families, almost all hand-loom weavers,
whose busy shuttles and cheery songs were heard by those passing along
the street. About a dozen more weavers and their families occupied small
cottages facing the college.
One of these was owned by Duncan M‘Nab, who acted as “weavers’ agent.”
Week by week he distributed the huge balls of cotton, which they wove
into striped and checked ginghams for tropical countries. My informant
vividly remembers how on a Saturday morning she often saw forty or more
weavers, either receiving these huge balls, or bringing in their
“cuts”—_i.e._, a portion of their “web” (pieces of gingham), for which
they received part payment, or “subsistence-money,” for the next week,
the balance being paid when the web, consisting of several pieces, was
complete.
At that time there were upwards of six hundred hand-loom weavers living
in Crieff—both men and women—their houses being all down the High
Street, Comrie Street, Bridgend, Commissioner Street, Galvelmore Street,
and Burrell Street. Now I believe that not one remains.
The centre of the college was next divided between the police and the
Episcopalians of Crieff, the police-constables occupying the ground
floor, and the basement (including the present kitchen, scullery,
larder, etc.) being divided into cells for prisoners, while the large
drawing-room on the upper floor was used on week-days as a school for
about fifty children of Episcopalian parents, and on Sundays for
services conducted by Mr. Wildman, who was curate to Mr. Lendrum, Vicar
of the Episcopal Church at Muthill (three miles distant).
[Illustration:
ELLIOTT & FRY
]
Ere long Mr. Lendrum succeeded in getting the small Episcopal Church of
St. Michael built in Lodge Street, in the lower part of the town. He
then resigned his charge at Muthill, and came to live at Bank Place, in
Crieff. Very soon he found an opportunity to buy the college buildings,
and having ejected all the inhabitants, he remodelled the whole,
transforming them into a commodious college, thenceforth known as St.
Margaret’s College, for sixty Episcopalian girls, some of whom came from
the south of England. They were taught by four resident governesses—two
English, one French, and one German; also by music and drawing-masters,
who came twice a week from Edinburgh and Glasgow, travelling by rail as
far as Greenloaning, whence the coach brought them to Crieff, returning
next day. The standard of teaching, as proved by printed examination
papers and replies, was excellent. Dr. Wordsworth, Bishop of St.
Andrews, was visiting director.
Externally the building now assumed a rigidly conventual aspect. With
the exception of the lancet windows of the chapel in the east wing, with
a door to admit favoured members of the congregation, and the
entrance-door in the centre of the college, surmounted with a cross,
nothing was seen from the street save a dead wall, without a single
window. Those shown in a now very rare engraving were a survival of the
older days, but all built up: the dormitories in each wing, and the
other rooms on the street side being lighted only by skylight.
On either side of the entrance-door were music-rooms, glazed like a
greenhouse, occupying the space which is now laid down in grass. The
ecclesiastical-looking window, still so conspicuous as seen from
Dollerie Terrace, and so incongruous in its present surroundings, was
that of St. Margaret’s Chapel, where the girls met for daily morning and
evening church service. A large organ in the loft between the
dining-hall and chapel was played by one of the governesses, an
excellent musician. But on Sundays and high festivals about seventy-five
persons from the college marched two and two down to St. Michael’s
Church, at the further end of the town. On Whitsunday all the girls wore
white dresses, forming a pretty procession.
The central house was occupied by the Lendrum family, the resident
governesses, and a family of boarders from Calcutta; and many leading
members of the Episcopal Church, such as Bishop Wordsworth, Dean Torry,
Provost Fortescue of St. Ninian’s Cathedral; and Captain the Hon. A. Hay
Drummond of Cromlix, met from time to time in the large dining-room.
The kitchen and laundries were situated near the chapel; and here we
touch on a weak point, for in those days the pure and abundant waters of
Loch Turret had not been enlisted to bring health and cleanliness to the
town, and in this large house, as in its humbler neighbours, there was
neither water nor drainage. There was, indeed, a pump in the middle of
the garden, but in summer it ran dry, so all the year round, twice or
three times a day, a water-cart brought water from the burn at
Tomaknock, on the Dollerie road.
But for drinking, the house-maidens fetched water in pails from a spring
half-way down the High Street, and were much chaffed by the weavers on
account of their caps. In the forenoon all, even the youngest girls,
wore large “mutches,” such as were then invariably worn by old women;
but in the afternoon these were replaced by smart caps, gaily trimmed,
and having long streamers of bright-coloured ribbon. Neat white aprons
were essential. Although there were thirteen of these maidens, their
wages were not so serious an item as they would be now, as the majority
only received £3 or £4, and the upper servants £8 per annum.
What with the very inadequate water-supply and other exceedingly
defective sanitary arrangements, the school was subject to frequent
outbreaks of illness—measles, scarlet fever, and whooping-cough. But
after thirteen years typhoid fever broke out, of so virulent a type that
two of the girls died, as did also the French governess. The latter was
buried at Innerpeffray. Of course the students were dispersed, never to
meet again, the financial affairs of the college being found to be in a
hopeless muddle.
Mr. Lendrum continued for some years to carry on a similar school near
London, on a larger and more expensive scale. It was known as St.
Margaret’s College, Fulham. After a while that also came to grief
financially.
Once more the college buildings in the High Street came into the market,
and were next bought by the Roman Catholic Priest, who, with others,
lived in them for a while.
Ere long they were sold to the Trustees of Morrison’s Academy, and used
as a temporary house for the Rector (Rev. William Ogilvie) and his
boarders, until the permanent house at the Academy was built. So Mr.
Ogilvie occupied the central house, and his boys occupied the
dormitories in the wings. He was succeeded by Mr. Tyacke, whose lamented
death was partly attributed to his haste in removing into the new house
aforesaid ere the plaster was fully dry.
The college buildings were next bought by Mr. Donaldson, builder, who
once again transformed the two wings into a number of small flats, just
as when they were purchased by Mr. Lendrum. The centre, which is
distinguished as being “College House,” continues to be an old-fashioned
private residence, which is let as lodgings. Its once sombre old
dining-room is now my pleasant sitting-room, where, surrounded by the
pictures and treasures collected in many climes, I can recall those
sunny lands, while watching the ever-changing lights and shadows, all
effects of sunshine or storm sweeping by turns over the fertile valley
of the Earn and the peaceful Ochils.
As I am jotting down memories of matters of local interest, which are in
danger of being forgotten in the rush of modern life, I think I must
refer to an old Crieff legend, which, when I first knew the town some
forty years ago, was generally known. It refers to the hill called
“Callum’s Hill,” about ten minutes’ walk from my door. It faces the
house and park of Fern Tower, which, like itself, is the property of our
cousin, Lord Abercromby. In the park a few large boulders still remain,
of what a hundred years ago was still a very fine Druidic circle, much
frequented at Hallowe’en and May morning or “Beltane” (the ancient
spring and autumn fire-festivals) by the lads and lassies, who here kept
up the old customs of sun-wise turns, and sitting round a bonfire
shuffling for bits of oat-cake, leaping across the fire, etc.
The legend was that St. Columba came to Crieff, and ascending the hill
overlooking the stones whence the Druids worshipped the rising sun, he
taught the people of the true Sun of Righteousness already risen to be
the Light of the World. It was on account of this tradition, which he
had known all his life, that old Mr. Murray of Dollerie suggested to the
congregation of the new Episcopal Church at Crieff, very near this hill,
that it should be called St. Columba—a suggestion which was at once
adopted. But so little do the present generation know of old tradition,
that you will probably find no one who knows anything beyond the fact
that the hill is Callum’s Hill, but who Callum was they neither know nor
care.
POSTSCRIPT
And now (having returned to that corner of Scotland in which I hope that
my beloved body will some day be laid to rest in the sweet God’s-acre at
Ochtertyre), for the benefit of friends who may not be acquainted with
Mr. Cosmo Monkhouse’s address of a soul to its dying body, I cannot
refrain from quoting lines which so exactly describe the feelings of one
whose soul-case has for well-nigh seventy years ministered so faithfully
to every requirement of an exacting mistress.
ANY SOUL TO ANY BODY.[74]
“So we must part, my body, you and I,
Who’ve spent so many pleasant years together,
’Tis sorry work to lose your company,
Who clove to me so close, whate’er the weather,
From winter unto winter, wet or dry;
But you have reached the limit of your tether,
And I must journey on my way alone,
And leave you quietly beneath a stone.
“They say that you are altogether bad
(Forgive me, ’tis not my experience),
And think me very wicked to be sad
At leaving you, a clod, a prison, whence
To get quite free I should be very glad.
Perhaps I may be so some few days hence,
But now, methinks, ’twere graceless not to spend
A tear or two on my departing friend.
· · · · ·
“But you must stay, dear body, and I go.
And I was once so very proud of you;
You made my mother’s eyes to overflow
When first she saw you, wonderful and new,
And now, with all your faults, ’twere hard to find
A slave more willing, or a friend more true.
Ay, even they who say the worst about you
Can scarcely tell what I shall do without you.”
AT LAST.
“When on my day of life the night is falling,
And, in the winds from unsunned spaces blown,
I hear far voices out of darkness calling
My feet to paths unknown.
“THOU WHO hast made my home of life so pleasant,
Leave not its tenant when its walls decay;
O LOVE DIVINE, O HELPER ever present,
Be THOU my strength and stay.
“Be near me when all else is from me drifting—
Earth, sky, home’s pictures, days of shade and shine,
And kindly faces to my own unlifting
The love which answers mine.
“I have but THEE, O FATHER! Let THY SPIRIT
Be with me, then, to comfort and uphold,
No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit,
Nor street of shining gold.
“Suffice it if—my good and ill unreckoned,
And both forgiv’n through THY abounding grace—
I find myself by hands familiar beckoned
Unto my fitting place.
“Some humble door among THY many mansions,
Some sheltering shade where sin and striving cease,
And flows for ever through heaven’s green expansions
The river of THY peace.
“There from the music round about me stealing,
I fain would learn the new and holy song,
And find, at last, beneath THY trees of healing,
The LIFE for which I long.”
WHITTIER.
“I know WHOM I have believed, and am persuaded that HE is able to keep
that which I have committed unto HIM against that Day.”—2 TIMOTHY i. 12.
APPENDIX
NOTE A
_The Wolf of Badenoch_
From the fact that the lands of Badenoch were so long held by my
ancestors, the Comyns of Badenoch, it has often been assumed that the
fierce “Wolfe of Badenoch” was a Comyn. This, happily, was not the case,
though he held broad lands wrested from the Comyns, and dwelt in their
old Castle of Lochindorb.
The ruthless Wolf was Lord Alexander Stewart, fourth son of King Robert
the Second, who died A.D. 1390, by whom he was created Earl of Buchan,
when that title was forfeited by Comyn in 1374. He was also made Earl of
Ross in right of his wife, Eufame, Countess of Ross, in right of whom he
held the Thanedom and Castle of Dingwall, the Baronies of Skye and the
Lewes, lands in Caithness, Sutherland, Inverness, Nairn, Athol,
Banffshire, and Perth, the latter including Forgandenny and Kinfauns,
while from his royal father he obtained, besides Badenoch, Abernethy,
and other lands of the Comyns, those of Robert de Chisholm in
Inverness-shire, and Strathaven in Banffshire, and was created King’s
Lieutenant for all the North of Scotland. So he was a most powerful
noble, who could brook no contradiction.
When he found that his wife Eufame bore him no children, he sought
another love, Mariota, daughter of Athyn, by whom he had five
illegitimate sons, Sir Alexander, Sir Andrew, Walter, James, and Duncan.
These all grew up as fierce as their father, each drawing to himself a
company of wild Highlanders, reckless freebooters who carried fire and
sword throughout the country. The eldest stormed the Castle of
Kildrummy, which belonged to the Countess of Mar, and either compelled
or prevailed on her to become his wife, whereupon he assumed the title
of Earl of Mar. After this rude wooing, he employed his energies in the
service of his country, and was twice ambassador to England.
But the chapter in the Wolf’s history which chiefly affected Morayshire
was when, having incurred the censure of the Church for forsaking his
wife, he in revenge took possession of the Bishop of Moray’s lands in
Badenoch, whereupon he was solemnly excommunicated. To avenge this step,
he swooped down from his mountain stronghold at Lochindorb, burnt the
town of Forres, with the Church of St. Lawrence and the manor of the
Archdeacon, and a month later dealt likewise with Elgin, which, being
almost entirely built of wood, was quickly consumed, as were also the
Church of St. Giles, “the House of God, ‘Domus Dei,’ near Elgyn,
eighteen noble and beautiful manses of the canons and chaplains, and the
noble and highly adorned Church of Moray, the delight of the country and
ornament of the kingdom, with all the books, charters, and other goods
of the country placed therein.”
Eventually the proud Wolf submitted to the Church, and by special
commission from the Bishop of Moray to Lord Walter Trail, Bishop of St.
Andrews, he was absolved from the sentence of excommunication, in
presence of his royal brother and many great nobles at Perth, outside
the doors of the Church of the Predicate Brothers, and afterwards before
the High Altar, on condition that he should make satisfaction to the
Church of Moray, and also that he should send to Rome to obtain the
Pope’s special absolution.
He died in 1394, and was buried in the choir of the Cathedral Church of
Dunkeld, where a mutilated but still stately monument of a knight
recumbent in full armour bears his name as “Senescallus Comes de Buchan
et Dominus de Badenoch, _bonæ memoriæ_.”
NOTE B
_The Lowlands of Moray_
Probably in no part of Scotland has the whole face of Nature been so
entirely changed within the last four hundred years, as in “The Laich of
Moray,” namely, that low-lying portion of the county of Elgin or Moray
traversed by the railway which connects Aberdeen with Inverness.
In comparing Moray of the present day with the ancient province of
Morayland, we must first of all remember how very much larger was the
tract of country formerly bearing this name, and which included the
present counties of Inverness, Nairn, and Elgin, extending eastward to
Buchan and Mar, and south along the valley of the Spey as far as
Badenoch. Thus, when King Robert Bruce erected his lands in Moray into
an earldom, they extended from Fochabers on the east to Glengarry and
Glenelg on the western sea-coast. Early overrun by Norsemen, and often
invaded by the Danes, Morayland has ever held a prominent position in
the history of Scotland, and the blood of the old sea-kings doubtless
accounts for much of the turbulence of the Moray men of old, and the
vigour on which they pride themselves to this day.
Of their ancient turbulence there is proof enough in the record of
kingly murders here perpetrated; for though history goes to prove that
Macbeth killed King Duncan in fair open fight near Elgin, there is
little doubt that King Malcolm the First and King Duffus were both
murdered at the Castle of Forres, and a certain King Donald was slain in
the same district.
In short, the men of Moray ever strove so hard for independence that it
has been said to puzzle antiquarians to decide whether at length
Scotland annexed Morayland, or Moray absorbed all the rest of Scotland!
That the former was the true solution must, however, be conceded;
inasmuch as we find that, A.D. 1160, King Malcolm IV., having conquered
the men of Moray, endeavoured to break their power by transplanting
large bodies into other counties, extending from Caithness in the north
to Galloway in the south, thereby, of course, greatly benefiting these
other races!
Having once obtained a footing in the province, these Scottish kings
showed themselves so well pleased with it, that they established royal
castles at Forres, Elgin, and Banff, and had other hunting-seats
besides. The ecclesiastical powers also showed a full appreciation of a
climate which has ever been accounted nearer to that of Devonshire than
of any other part of Britain—in fact, local tradition gives it credit
for forty days of fine weather in the twelvemonth in excess of any other
part of Scotland.
Although always noted for this excellent climate, and also for the
exceeding fertility of its soil, its agriculture appears to have
continued greatly inferior to that of the Southern Lowlands till the
beginning of the present century; so that Morayshire farmers may with
just pride point to its present high state of cultivation and the
perfection of their cattle as among the most notable changes of Moray.
As regards cultivation, Moray now acknowledges no superior in Britain,
though she admits Lincoln and Norfolk to be her worthy rivals; while, as
regards her herds of polled cattle, the Smithfield prize-list tells its
tale year by year, and Morayshire farmers will not soon forget the
unprecedented circumstance that _the two finest beasts_ in the
Smithfield show for 1881, selected to compete for the Champion Medal[75]
(the highest honour that can be attained by a British farmer) were
_both_ bred and exhibited by the same man, and that he hailed from the
Laich of Moray!
Altogether, there is a good deal to justify the pride with which the
many Moray men scattered all over the earth ever speak of this their
special fatherland, and their innate conviction that the world itself
could not get on without “the Moray loons.”[76] The feeling was
admirably exemplified by the reply of a Morayshire gardener when asked
his opinion of the English among whom his lot was cast. “Weel,” said he,
“I’ve nae great faut tae find with the Sassenach, but I maun remark that
_for meenisters or gairdeners, or onything needing head-wark, ye maun
come tae us in the North!_”
They will not, however, always give full credit even to the said
ministers, for I remember the comment of an old man who kept my
brother’s lodge, and whose verdict on his minister was that he was of no
more account than the figure 9 with the tail cut off!
Craving forgiveness of all southern readers for quoting (of course
sympathetically!) this tribute to the dear land which gave me birth, I
would now draw attention to some really remarkable changes in the
relations of flood and fell, land and water, which have here been
effected, partly by drainage and partly by natural causes, and also to
various alterations in the fauna of the province.
In the old historical days, vast tracts of the land now under
cultivation were all beast-haunted forest, wherein wolves lingered long
after they had been exterminated in more accessible regions. There were
also great expanses of marsh-land dotted with numerous fresh-water
lochs, while the coast was intersected by tidal channels and harbours,
some of which have wholly vanished, while others are so altered as to
render it difficult to trace their ancient boundaries.
Under the head of vanished waters, we may class the ancient lochs of
Cotts, Inchstellie, Inverlochty, Keam, Outlet, Rose-isle, the Laveroch
Loch, and the great Loch of Spynie, all of which have disappeared within
the last two centuries, chiefly under the prosaic influence of drainage.
By far the largest of these, and the most important loch in the province
of Moray, was that of Spynie, which has undergone such a singular
succession of changes as to make its history one of unique interest. In
the records of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries it figures as an
estuary of the sea—a secure harbour of refuge, on whose shores stood the
ancient burgh of Spynie—a fisher-town, whose inhabitants were vassals of
those mighty lords temporal and spiritual, the Bishops of Moray.
Strange to say, as years rolled on, the ceaseless labour of the waves
(aided by the rivers Lossie and Spey, which supplied a multitude of
great boulders and masses of gravel) resulted in the formation along the
coast of such enormous breakwaters in the form of great terraced banks
of huge shingle that, by about the fifteenth century, the sea at last
found itself excluded from the harbour by its own work.
Thenceforward the isolated loch gradually changed from salt water to
brackish, and then became fresh. No longer tenanted by sea-fish and
oysters, fresh-water creatures began to appear and to multiply. As the
waters expanded more and more, they overspread the cultivated lands on
every side, transforming them to sedgy swamps, which soon were peopled
by shy, man-fearing wild creatures, and became the favourite
breeding-ground of all manner of water-fowl—a true paradise for
naturalists and sportsmen.
Towards the close of the eighteenth century the neighbouring proprietors
united in such energetic efforts to recover their lost lands that
extensive drainage-works were commenced, and the area of water greatly
reduced. But such difficulties were encountered that, for the first half
of the last century, the Loch of Spynie held its place as a most
attractive feature in the landscape, as its blue waters faithfully
mirrored the noble old tower of the Bishop’s Palace, and offered a
resting-place to immense flocks of wild swans, wild geese, and rare
birds innumerable. Many a day of delight have we spent among those reedy
inlets, where all my brothers taught themselves the natural history of
their own home ere seeking wider fields for sport in distant lands.
But about the year 1860 agricultural interest carried the day, and the
prospective value of the reclaimable lands lent new energy to the
proprietors. Now only one little corner of blue lake remains to tell of
the vanished waters—a little lakelet covering about eighty acres, with
reedy shores extending over half as much more. But all the rest is
transformed into rich arable land, beautiful only to the eye of the
farmer—a dead level, which for some years waved golden in the autumn
sunlight with heavy wheat-crops. But Californian competition having
taught the Moray farmers to rely rather on their beasts than on their
grain, turnips now carry the day, and afford cover for the more
commonplace game which has replaced the strange and interesting
creatures, now for ever departed.
Both the climate and the soil of “the Laich of Moray” rank exceptionally
high. Of the former, as I have already observed, it is locally said to
have forty days more sunshine in the year than any other part of
Scotland. The old records tell that in the grievous famine which caused
so much suffering in the end of the sixteenth century, Moray alone was
exempt, and that meal-merchants came all the way from Forfarshire to buy
the surplus produce, for which they paid very heavily, and, moreover,
had the great cost and toil of transport across the Grampians.
In the end of the seventeenth and beginning of the eighteenth centuries
there was a grievous period of famine. For seven years the harvests were
so bad that many of the poorest folk literally died of starvation. 1740,
1782, 1799, and 1800 were also famine years, and though in each case
Morayshire fared better than the neighbouring counties, the sufferings
of the people were very serious.
Even in normal years there was often grievous scarcity, for up to the
middle of the eighteenth century turnips and potatoes were only known as
garden vegetables; they were not grown as field-crops, and there was no
sown grass. Cattle wandered over the stubble-fields and moors, and
picked up a scanty living till the snow drove them to the byres, where
they were kept alive on straw, marsh hay, and rushes. Sometimes the poor
starving beasts were bled that their starving owners might keep
themselves alive.
In Sir Robert Gordon’s accounts of his housekeeping at Dunrobin, when he
was guardian to his nephew, the Earl of Sutherland, he enters orders to
kill red deer in April and May (when the meat is unfit to eat), because
household meal was exhausted. It was not till about 1760 that wheat was
extensively grown, and that the clover, ryegrass, and turnips, now so
abundant, began to be generally cultivated.
In those days, when our smart forefathers were so gaily apparelled with
fine lace at breast and wrist, powdered periwig and cocked hat (terribly
inconvenient in windy weather),[77] the peasantry were looked upon
simply as slaves, bound to the soil, bought and sold with it. They were
ill-housed, ill-fed, ill-clothed. To them a bad harvest surely brought
famine, and famine brought pestilence, and marshfever and ague annually
claimed many victims.
Sheriff Cosmo Innes told me that his own father had told him how the
Highlanders who came in bands to shear his harvests at Leuchars and
Dunkirty used generally to take home with them a shaking ague from
working in the marshy land. Now, thanks to the farmer and his drainage,
ague and intermittent fever have been banished from bonnie Moray.
While Spynie’s triple change from sea-harbour to fresh-water lake and
from lake to corn-land was gradually taking place in the neighbourhood
of Elgin, an equally remarkable transformation occurred along the coast
between Forres and Nairn, whereby a broad tract of about four thousand
acres of rich alluvial soil was overwhelmed by drifting sands forming a
strange belt of desert. Prior to the winter of 1694 and the spring of
1695, this estate was so fertile as to be commonly called “the granary
of Moray,” but is now known only as the Culbin Sandhills—a most
lamentable example of what strange freaks Nature can occasionally
indulge in! It is now a most desolate region of yellow hillocks,
composed only of the very finest pale sea-sand, always in movement, and
for the most part drifting eastward, stirred by every breath of wind,
and carried along in clouds, or running down the hillsides from their
summits in trickles, like rills of running water.
A walk on the pale, phantom hills is like a scene in some strange dream,
where the very ground beneath one’s feet is all unstable, and runs away
from one’s tread. Some of these great mounds are occasionally upwards of
a hundred feet in height, and from such a summit we obtain a strange and
most eerie view—nothing on every side but a most desolate, dreary waste
of barren sand; but even as we mount our steps are loosening the sand
beneath us, and inviting the play of the wind which, perchance, ere the
morrow has swept the hillock and sportively scattered its atoms over the
country miles away.
On the lesser hills there is a sprinkling of dry, tufted bent—that
harshest of grasses—but the larger hills are entirely devoid of any
vestige of vegetation, and one marvels how even the snails subsist,
whose bright-coloured, delicate shells are here so numerous. But though
food seems scarce, rabbits and hares contrive to flourish (the latter,
however, have of late years greatly diminished in numbers). These in
their turn provide an abundant larder for numerous foxes, to whom these
lonely solitudes afford blissful hunting-grounds, and both the foxes and
rabbits of Culbin are noted for their remarkable size.
Speaking of Morayshire rabbits, the trapping and shooting of which is
now so serious a care, it is interesting to note the relation between
their increase and the destruction of all the rabbit foes which
gamekeepers account “vermin.” In the early part of this century all such
wild creatures were allowed to hunt unmolested; consequently, although
rabbits were tolerably numerous along the sea-coast, they were so scarce
in the woods that their occasional appearance was noted with interest.
This was especially the case on my father’s estate of Altyre, on the
Findhorn River; but about the year 1816 he engaged an English keeper for
the express purpose of killing down vermin. The first year’s bag showed
a return of sixty-five foxes, and almost innumerable wild cats, hunting
domestic cats, weasels, and pole-cats. A second, third, and fourth
year’s work went far towards clearing the woods of these depredators,
greatly to the benefit of the neighbouring poultry yards.
Then it began to be observed that there were a few rabbits on the
estate. In the second year there was no mistake about it. In the third,
my father bagged twenty couple in a single field. As years wore on they
increased so as to become a pest. It was almost like the story of New
Zealand. All the young oaks, so carefully planted, were devoured, and
soon the damage to the woods was estimated at several thousand pounds.
In the year 1840 William Reader, a Norfolk rabbitcatcher, was engaged,
and _in the first year_, between April and September, he killed nearly
seven thousand rabbits in the Altyre woods. The annual return for the
two following years was about two thousand, and the number of rabbits
was soon so far diminished that the services of the rabbitcatcher were
dispensed with. Not for long, however, for soon the increase of the foe,
and the destruction of valuable young wood, necessitated his recall, and
from that day to the end of the century his work was never-ending. Then,
handing over his work to his son, he retired on a pension from the
laird. He died in 1902, in his eighty-eighth year, after sixty-two years
of faithful service. It is worthy of note that during his brief absence
the rabbits had contrived to make head again, notwithstanding a
corresponding increase of vermin, the return for one year showing twenty
foxes and a great multitude of weasels.
In that same year, 1840, the first squirrel was shot in the Altyre woods
by my brother John, then a lad of fourteen, and the unknown animal was
shown to the English trapper as a great curiosity. It was, however,
assumed to have been a tame squirrel escaped from captivity, as these
beautiful but mischievous little creatures were never seen north of the
Grampians till about the year 1844, when they were introduced by Lady
Lovat, and turned loose in Beaufort woods as pretty and ornamental
little innocents.
Whether these were the progenitors of all the devouring host which now
make havoc in the northern forests, or whether another couple were
turned out by Lady Cawdor in the woods round Cawdor Castle, is not
certain; but this I know, that when in the autumn of 1855 Sir Alexander
Gordon-Cumming caught a glimpse of the first squirrel which appeared on
his lawn at Altyre, he could scarcely believe he had seen aright, but
with the instinct of a keen forester, he very quickly despatched this
poor little precursor of the destructive army which so quickly followed.
The notion that this solitary visitor was only the herald of a rapidly
multiplying host of immigrants was not at first realised, and the
keepers, ever on the alert to destroy all game-consuming vermin, took
small heed of these pretty newcomers, which, of course, were deemed very
interesting strangers. Soon, however, it became known that the Beaufort
and Cawdor woods were suffering severely from their depredations, and
that rewards had been offered for every squirrel’s head produced.
All too quickly the nibbling armies made their way through Lord Moray’s
forests of Darnaway, and, crossing the Findhorn River, invaded the
Altyre woods, and there finding congenial quarters, increased and
multiplied so rapidly that soon the forester reported very serious
damage, and consequent pecuniary loss. The young shoots and buds of all
coniferous trees find especial favour with these busy and most wasteful
foragers, who destroy far more than they consume, leaping from bough to
bough to secure some bud or cone more attractive than that which they
have just tasted and dropped, so that the whole ground is thickly strewn
with their rejected fragments.
Not content with this wholesale destruction of young shoots, the
squirrels have a fancy for barking trees of a considerable size within
eight or ten feet of the summit, which is so enfeebled by loss of sap as
to offer small resistance to the next gale, so the snapping of many a
good tree is laid to the account of these depredators. Even when the
wounds heal over, and the tree appears to have recovered, it carries
within it ineffaceable traces of its early sufferings, and when, twenty
years later, it is sold as timber, the buyer finds to his cost how
serious has been the damage done. Especially do young larch-plantations
suffer in the early spring, when the winter store of nuts has run short.
Then the ground is thickly strewn with the tender young shoots, and,
when weary of these, the foliage is devoured; so, what with squirrels
overhead and rabbits below, the poor trees have no lack of foes.
Ere long the increase of the squirrels in the Altyre woods was so marked
as to necessitate the employment of an extra man, whose sole work was to
destroy the invaders (and it required a good marksman to bring down
these agile little creatures, in their never-ending games at
hide-and-seek). Though the warfare has thenceforth been incessant, each
autumn is marked by a special campaign, when the squirrels seek a change
of diet, and, forsaking the fir-woods, assemble in force among the oaks,
beeches, and other hard woods, to gather their winter store of acorns,
nuts, and beech-mast. Then the squirrel-slayer and his assistants find
their best opportunity, and wage war unsparingly.
I have no return of the annual squirrel-slaughter on the estate previous
to 1870, but from that year till 1880 the average annual destruction was
a thousand head. It has now been reduced to about one hundred.
This refers only to the Altyre woods. In those round Cawdor Castle the
damage done was so great that a reward of threepence per head was
offered, and for upwards of twenty years this price was paid on an
annual average of one thousand one hundred squirrels. In the sixteen
years between 1862 and 1878, a total of fourteen thousand one hundred
and twenty-three squirrels were killed, for which was paid a sum of
£213, 13s. And still they abound!
Strange to say, in the adjacent forests round Darnaway Castle these
pretty pests were very rare till about 1875, when their numbers rapidly
increased. The forester attributes this fact to their preference for
fir-trees, “from prop-wood to spar-wood size,” and to the fact that,
till recently, there were few trees in the forest of this favoured size.
The fastidious creatures show a marked preference for young trees of
vigorous growth and full of sap. Having once established themselves, the
prolific invaders increased and multiplied so rapidly that it was found
necessary to put on an extra keeper for their special destruction,
besides offering a reward of one penny per head for every squirrel
slain, notwithstanding which Darnaway still adds from four hundred to
one thousand four hundred to the annual return of little victims. The
total in 1901 was one thousand three hundred and fifty-eight. And the
war of extermination has to be kept up steadily, in order to prevent a
truly alarming increase.
At Beaufort Castle the annual return is almost always upwards of a
thousand. In 1898 and 1899 it rose to one thousand seven hundred and
eighty one, and one thousand six hundred and fifty-one.
The destructive little beauties have now invaded Ross-shire in such
numbers, and have done such grievous damage to young plantations, that
the owners of thirty-eight thousand acres of wood in that county have
formed themselves into an Anti-Squirrel Club, allowing their gamekeepers
fourpence for every tail (? brush) produced. The return for the first
year, 1903, was four thousand six hundred and forty!
Changes in the natural history of a country creep in so silently and so
unmarked, that it is only by looking back a few years that we become
conscious that old friends have disappeared, and that new ones have
taken their place. Members of the Society for the Destruction of Rooks
and Pigeons in the North of Scotland, which pays a penny per bird on so
many thousands annually, find it hard to realise that at the end of the
eighteenth century, the arrival of one pair of wood-pigeons in certain
fir-woods not far from the Lake of Spynie, furnished an interesting
topic for the naturalists of Moray.
My uncle, Sir Alexander Dunbar, used to start on a long walk from the
Duffus Woods to the loch, and would mention on his return that he had
seen the two pigeons, or, as he preferred to call them, “the cushats.”
By the time his eldest son was a bird-nesting lad, the descendants of
the gentle pair were so numerous as to afford the boys good sport, and
they noted with special interest that these new colonists bred all the
year round, and there was not a single month in the year in which they
did not find nests with newly-laid eggs. It was some time ere their
quest was successful in the month of January, but at length a mild
winter enabled them to complete the score of the twelve months.
Of course, the increase of “the cushie do’es” is largely due to the fact
that proprietors began to protect their game by killing down the
numerous hawks, kites, and buzzards which had hitherto preyed on all
wild creatures. Hence the increase of hedgehogs, whose very existence in
the country had scarcely been suspected.
Starlings too, now so abundant, were actually unknown, as was well
proven by the absence of their eggs from the very perfect collection
made by my bird-nesting brothers (at least from the eggs of their own
finding in Morayshire). As the starlings increased, the larks (which had
given their name to the Laveroch Loch) became fewer and fewer. They
almost seem to have vanished with the waters. The hares, formerly so
abundant in the cultivated lands of Gordonstoun and Duffus, have also
greatly diminished since the extensive drainage of the neighbourhood;
while, on the other hand, the increased area devoted to turnips, and the
incessant war waged on the “hoodie craws” and other vermin, have been
favourable to a corresponding increase of partridges.
Pheasants were in those days quite unknown in this part of Scotland, as
also in the adjoining county of Banff, where now some five thousand are
annually killed on the banks of the Deveron alone—an increase, however,
which of course is in a great measure due to careful rearing on at least
one large estate.
Here, too, starlings only made their appearance forty years ago, and the
first squirrel was observed about sixty years ago. Except along the
sea-board, rabbits were so scarce that when, in 1830, Lord Kintore
introduced fox-hunting on the borders of Aberdeen and Banff, his keepers
used to go all over the country carrying rabbits, which they dropped in
couples, in order to provide tempting diet for the foxes! Indeed in
these days of “Ground Game Acts” it seems difficult to realise that less
than a century has elapsed since the British Parliament deemed it
necessary to pass a special Act (A.D. 1792) for the “Protection of
Rabbits” throughout the kingdom.
The said “conies” have tempted me to a long digression. To return from
the woods to the sandhills.
To lovers of strange wild birds (naturalists, not bird-butchers) this
Moravian desert has long been a paradise, for its unbroken solitude has
attracted many a shy, rare visitor. Not only are migratory birds tempted
to alight on such a feeding-ground as this sea-shore (shielded from
man’s territory by this desert belt, with its outer barrier of low
fir-woods), but there are also at the further extremity certain marshy
lochs, and a tract of peat-moss and rank heather, which afford inviting
shelter to a very varied game-list, from roe-deer to wild swans.
The latter have in recent years been greatly scared by over-zealous
pursuit, and the disturbance of frequent trains rushing through the
fir-woods; but from forty to fifty years ago, my brothers occasionally
had the luck to see flocks of fifty or sixty of these noble birds
quietly feeding in the sheltered little lochs aforesaid, their presence
being, moreover, a sure guarantee for that of numerous wild-duck, ever
on the watch to profit by the exertions of the swans in pulling up weeds
from the deeper water, of which they could snatch their share.
Besides the commoner varieties of wild-duck, such as widgeon and
mallard, the rarer scoter and velvet duck, the morillon and the
golden-eye were prizes occasionally secured; as also the brent goose,
the bean goose, and the gossander, a fish-eating bird of beautiful
plumage, with cream-coloured breast and glossy green back, which found a
breeding-ground just suited to its tastes among the rank herbage beside
the fresh-water lochs, yet within easy distance of the sea.
The shore is still frequented by an astonishing variety of birds, teal
and snipe, curlews, peewits, golden plovers, sandpipers, and red-shanks,
and great flocks of oyster-catchers, with an occasional tall grey heron,
though these last are fewer since the persistent attacks of the jackdaws
succeeded in driving them from their heronry on the River Findhorn.
Neither have we heard in recent years of such immense flocks of
beautiful white wild swans as occasionally assembled in the Bay of
Findhorn, where as many as three hundred birds have been seen to alight,
at the time of their October migrations, there remaining for some hours,
to feed and talk, ere dispersing to their several destinations; for
after these great swan-parliaments they started in every direction, in
parties of from four to twenty, uttering far-sounding musical calls.
Another shy creature which now rarely, if ever, approaches this shore,
is the seal, which in the early part of the century haunted the bay,
attracted thither by the salmon. The fishers consequently waged a war of
extinction, with such results that it is recorded that in the year 1790
one man actually killed a hundred and thirty!
Many conflicting theories have been started to account for the existence
of this strange desert. The work of destruction appears to have been due
to divers agencies, for in some parts of this region of wind-blown sand
we come on tracts of hard sand, sea-shells, and high ridges of
water-worn shingle, which appear to have been deposited by an influx of
the ocean at some much earlier period. Here and in the neighbouring
peat-moss have been found various relics of a remote past. Numerous
flint arrow-heads and strange ornaments of bronze—one of which, a
ponderous serpentine bracelet, supposed to have belonged to some old
Viking, was treasured by my mother, and to her children was ever a
talisman to awaken wondering dreams concerning the pale mysterious
sandhills which had given birth to such eerie legends of diabolic
agency.
For, of course, the supernatural must needs claim a place in the popular
tradition which accounts for their existence; and many a time have we
listened, with ever-renewed interest, to the thrilling tale of the
wicked laird of Culbin, whose iniquities were crowned by refusing to
leave his cards on the Sabbath morning, vowing that he would play all
day, if the devil himself were his partner—a challenge which was
straightway followed by a thunder-clap and the appearance of so skilful
a card-player that the wicked laird sat engrossed, hour after hour, and
knew nothing of the awful sandstorm which had overwhelmed his dwelling;
and there to this day he sits in his buried hall, playing a never-ending
game!
Some of the old folks told us how once, as they crossed the sandhills
for the first time after a great gale, they had suddenly come on the old
mansion, the upper part of which had been laid bare, but a few days
later it had again entirely disappeared, and there remained no landmark
on the ever-moving desert to show even its whereabouts. From time to
time, at long intervals, some of its chimneys have been laid bare by the
wind, and once, about a hundred years ago, an old apple-tree came to
light, and proved its vitality by blossoming and bearing fruit ere it
again disappeared.
Rash is the man who counts on ever finding any one spot unchanged on the
morrow! A case very much to the point was that of a whole cargo of
smuggled goods having been landed on the shore, and there deposited till
they could conveniently be removed. A few days elapsed ere the owners
returned, and vainly sought for the spot where their stuff lay
concealed. The whole shore seemed to have moved—hills were level, and
the valleys were hills. So from that day to this nothing has been seen
of the lost goods.
At another time a dispute arose as to the boundary between the estate of
Culbin and one of its neighbours, and the disputants had the incredible
folly to waste labour in transporting a number of stones, eight feet in
height, which were placed on the principal hills to mark the line of
march. It is needless to say that after a very short time had elapsed
there remained no trace of the boundary-stones!
Before examining such records as we possess concerning the origin of
this strange desert tract, it may be well to look back to some earlier
chronicles concerning similar disasters that have from time to time
befallen our shores. Thus in the Red Book or _Records of the Priory of
Pluscarden_, preserved in the Advocates’ Library in Edinburgh, it is
stated that in the year A.D. 1010 the whole low country of Moray was
deluged by the sea.
Less than a century elapsed ere the coast of Britain was swept by that
awful wave which submerged the lands of Earl Goodwin, and left in their
place the dreaded sands which still bear his name. That this same
“devastation by sand” wrought desolation on the coast of Moray is
affirmed by three ancient chroniclers, Fordun, Buchanan, and Bœthius.
The latter tells how “villages, castles, towns, _and extensive woods_,
both in England and Scotland, were overwhelmed by an inundation of the
German Ocean, by the weight of which tempest the lands of Godowine, near
the mouth of the Thames, were overwhelmed by sand; and likewise THE LAND
OF MORAY IN SCOTLAND WAS AT THAT TIME DESOLATED BY THE SEA, castles
subverted from their foundation, some towns destroyed, and the labours
of men laid waste by the discharge of sand from the sea; monstrous
thunders also roaring, horrible and vast!”
Of the destruction of “extensive woods” all along the coast of Moray and
Nairn there is ample proof, as not only are the broad expanses of
peat-moss full of remains of fine old trees, both oak and pine,
furnishing the best of firewood at the present day, but the same peat is
known to extend far under the sea, and occasionally, after very rough
weather, large masses of peat are washed up from the ocean bed. The same
old forest is known to have extended right along the coast, and
peat-moss crops out from beneath the great sandhills, which have existed
for the last two centuries. On the other hand, the incursion of the sea
has left its mark in various beaches of water-worn stones, and beds of
sea-sand, with quantities of cockle and other marine shells, lying at
distances of fully a mile from the present sea-board.
Probably this great volcanic or tidal wave deposited sand all over the
country; but it would seem to have been gradually absorbed, as the
ruined forest eventually became a great marshy peat-moss, and the once
cultivated lands again gradually became overspread with vegetation and
restored to fertility. As regards this low-lying estate of Culbin, we
find no allusion to anything amiss when, in 1240, it was held by Richard
de Moravia, or when, early in the fifteenth century, it passed to the
Lady Egidia Moray. The heiress of Culbin bestowed her hand and fortune
on Sir Thomas Kinnaird of that Ilk, and her descendants held the estates
till the end of the seventeenth century, when they were as effectually
destroyed as were those of Earl Goodwin.
There is a tradition to the effect that twenty years before the final
catastrophe there had been several serious alarms, owing to the vast
accumulations of sand which were cast up by the sea, and which, being
carried inland by every gale from the west, gradually deteriorated the
value of the farms nearest to the sea-board, destroying the pastures.
The first grave alarm seems to have arisen in the autumn of 1676, when
the harvest was fully ripe, and the farmers rejoiced in their
good-fortune in holding the richest corn-lands of the north. On the
westernmost farm the reapers had assembled with their sickles (there
were no steam-reapers in those days), and great was their praise of the
heavy crop of barley which was to be cut on the morrow. Its richness was
noted with wonder, because the summer and autumn had been so
exceptionally dry.
The same dry, warm weather still continued, and there was a brooding
stillness in the air which excited the misgivings of some, who said it
surely presaged storm. Well were their fears verified. Soon a terrific
gale sprang up from the north-west, carrying blinding clouds of driving
sand; and when the morning dawned, it revealed a level plain of sand,
covering the corn-fields to a depth of fully two feet, so that only the
tops of the barley were visible. Then the wind fell, and the reapers set
about their heavy task of rescuing what they could of the grain, while
compelled to sacrifice the straw.
No very serious damage seems to have occurred in the next few years, for
up to 1693 the rental of the estates showed no diminution, the sixteen
principal farmers each paying on an average two hundred pounds Scots in
money, with forty bolls wheat, forty bolls bear (rye), forty bolls oats,
and forty bolls oatmeal in kind. (Proprietors in those days needed ample
storehouses, and were in fact compelled to be grain-merchants.) This
rental represents a sum which may have been equal to about £6000
sterling.
But in the terrible winter of 1694–95 the awful calamity occurred, and
in the following summer we find the poor ruined laird, Alexander
Kinnaird, petitioning the Scottish Parliament for relief of cess and
taxes, on the ground that “the two best parts of his estate of Culbin
were quite ruined and destroyed by great and vast heaps of sand which
had overblown the same, so that there was not a vestige to be seen of
his manor-place of Culbin, yards, orchards, and mains thereof, and which
within these twenty years were as considerable as many in the county of
Moray; and the small remainder of his estate which yet remained
uncovered was exposed to the like hazard, and the sand daily gained
ground thereon, where-through he was like to run the hazard of losing
the whole ... as a certificate produced under the hands of thirty of the
most worthy gentlemen of the shire of Moray, Nairn, and Inverness,
thereto can testify.”
Not only were the fruits of the land thus destroyed, but also part of
the fishing, for in 1733 we find mention of the salmon-fishings on
Findhorn being now quite lost by the alteration of the course of the
river, and “having yielded no rent these several years bye past.”
Very different is the rent-roll in the barony of Culbin in this year
from that which I have already quoted before the sandstorm. Now we find
only thirteen tenants, no longer holding equally-divided portions of
land, and of these only six make any payment in money, amounting to an
average of five pounds. Very quaint are the terms of rental. Thus:—
1. William Falconer, Laich of Culbin, pays nine bolls, two firlots bear
(_i.e._ rye), six hears of yarn, four capons _and a half_, two hens, and
thirteen loads of peats.
2. Robert Duncan pays two bolls, one firlot, two pecks bear, two capons
_and a half_, two hens, and three loads of peats.
3. Margaret Innes pays two firlots bear, _half a capon_,[78] and two
loads of peats.
4. John Nicoll pays five pounds ten shillings money, _two hens, and six
poultry_.
And so on. From the total of this singular rental, considerable
deduction was made for payment of the minister of Dyke’s stipend, and
altogether we can scarcely wonder that the poor laird found himself
compelled to dispose of his estates for what they would fetch, and so in
1698 we find a lengthy legal deed of sale, by which he makes them over
to Duff of Drummuir, accompanying the deed “_with my goodwill and
blessing_”—a remarkable entry to appear in a legal document, and one
which illustrates the existence of a curious old superstition, to the
effect that it was exceedingly unlucky to enter into possession of any
house or land which the last occupant had been obliged to leave
unwillingly. The cause which had led to his being compelled to abandon
his home was one which might well excuse the awakening of dormant
superstition, and therefore was Kinnaird the more careful to avert any
possible source of offence.
It would appear that the shock must have preyed on his mind, for he did
not long survive the sale of his estates: within three months he was
numbered with the dead.
Nor did the Duffs long retain possession of Culbin, notwithstanding poor
Kinnaird’s goodwill and blessing. Only thirty-five years went by ere it
was sold by public roup for the benefit of John Duff’s creditors, the
sum thus realised being £11,366 Scots, which is somewhat less than £1000
sterling.
Within the last forty years much has been done to prevent the further
extension of the sand, and to commence the reclamation of at least the
borders of this great Sahara. The means adopted have been the planting
of thick belts of young fir-trees, which seem as capable of deriving
sustenance from these dry sands as their kindred in mountain districts
are of existing on barren rocks.
Further efforts were also made to bind the light, shifting sands by
transplanting to them large quantities of the hardy bent, which
resembles a very dry rush. Its long fibrous roots throw out innumerable
filaments, forming a fine net-work. To secure for it a fair start,
quantities of broom and whins were laid on the sandhills and pegged
down, so as in some measure to diminish their exposure to the wind. How
these labours would be facilitated, if only it were possible to
introduce a great family of Californian lupines, which have wrought such
wonders in transforming the arid sands around San Francisco into fertile
soil!
The formation of this strange desert has by no means been Nature’s only
recent freak on these shores. Just beyond the sandhills lies the
pleasant bay of Findhorn, at the mouth of the beautiful river of that
name (not beautiful as seen at the dead level where it is crossed by the
railway, but most romantic in its loveliness as it cuts its deep
rock-channel through the great fir-forests). Prior to the year 1701 the
fishing and seaport town of Findhorn stood upon a pleasant plain, a mile
north-west from the present situation. That plain is now the bottom of
the sea!
This great change occurred suddenly, when an unusually high tide burst
through the natural sand-bar at the mouth of the river, and surging
shoreward, overwhelmed the town. Fortunately, however, this danger had
long been foreseen, so the majority of the inhabitants had already
forsaken their homes; consequently few lives were endangered.
The old town of Findhorn was situated near a level peat-moss, wherein
lay embedded roots and trunks of the great trees which had once
nourished in the great forest whose very existence had been forgotten.
In the middle of this moorland rose a conical artificial mound about
forty fathoms high, called the Douff-hillock. It now lies deep beneath
the waves, for that peat-moss is now the ocean bed, and the sea has
encroached so far into the land, that instead of the fisher-folk, when
bound for the town of Burghead, having a five-mile walk direct to that
headland, they have to make a circuit of ten miles round the bay.
The last noteworthy effort of the great waters to pass their accustomed
limits on these pleasant shores of Moray occurred in the year 1755, when
the fearful earthquake at Lisbon spread terror far and near. Its effects
were felt even here, in the form of a volcanic wave, which swept this
coast; and it is especially recorded that in the parish of Dyke, near
Forres, a flock of sheep, folded in apparent security far beyond the
reach of any ordinary tide, were all drowned by the overwhelming wave.
On the other hand, the sea now appears to be steadily receding from
these parts of the coast. Old men tell us how, in their youth, they were
wont to gather shells and dig for bait on the wet sands between
Campbelton and Nairn, where now sheep graze on the brine-sprinkled
grass. Moreover, in cutting turf from the older pasture further inland,
they were amazed to discover, beneath the thick turf, a paved way,
leading to a rude pier, which still retained the iron ring to which
boats had been moored at some forgotten time, ere the waters had
retreated.
[Illustration:
_C. F. Gordon Cumming._
A CAVE AT COVESEA.
]
A far more remarkable instance of such recession is to be found a little
further along the coast, beyond the fine Covesea Cliffs, whose fantastic
caves and strangely water-quarried rocks tell of a time when they, too,
must have lain for countless ages deep beneath the ocean.
But of the changes which have occurred in historic times, undoubtedly
the most remarkable is that to which I have already alluded, whereby the
ocean deliberately built up the mighty sea-wall which so effectually
shut it out from the once beautiful harbour of Spynie.
Such are a few of the many singular changes which would doubtless amaze
our ancestors considerably could they return in this nineteenth century
to visit their favourite hunting-grounds in the Lowlands of Moray.
NOTE C
_A Legend of Vanished Waters_
Although in speaking of the Lowlands of Moray I have briefly referred to
the very remarkable changes which within the last five hundred years
have befallen the beautiful Loch of Spynie, I think it well to record
these in fuller detail.
The loch, which was about three miles from Gordonstoun, was till
recently the fairest sheet of blue water in all the once great and
important province of Moray. Now only a tiny lake, covering an area of
about eighty acres, remains in that little corner, which alone of all
the ancient province, still bears the name of Moray—a small lakelet in a
small county.
Not fifty years have elapsed (I write in 1904) since this great
fresh-water lake was one of the most important features in the scenery
of the east coast. But the circumstance of chief interest connected with
it is that within comparatively recent years, when our ancestors and
their contemporaries built their castles on the shores of the lake, it
was an estuary of the sea, a secure harbour, where fishing-smacks and
sometimes trading-ships from far countries found secure refuge. And now,
so complete is the transformation, and so utterly have the waters
vanished, that the whole district is one wide expanse of rich arable
land.
The two prominent objects in the midst of those level corn-fields, are
the little hill on which stand the ruins of old Duffus Castle, and those
of the Palace of Spynie. The former was once the fortified stronghold of
Freskinus de Moravia, one of a race of barons of renown in the days of
King David I. In later ages it passed to the possession of the Lords
Duffus, who held it till the beginning of the eighteenth century.
One of their servants, who only died in 1760, used to tell of the time
when Bonnie Dundee, the celebrated Claverhouse, was a guest in the
castle, about the year 1689, and how she brought the claret from the
cask in a _timber stoup_, and served it to the guests in a silver cup.
She described Claverhouse as “a swarthy little man, with keen lively
eyes, and black hair, tinged with grey, which he wore in locks which
covered each ear, and were _rolled upon slips of lead twisted together
at the ends_.”
The old castle was a square tower, with walls about five feet thick, and
defended by parapet, ditch, and drawbridge; and round about it was an
orchard and garden, noted for its excellent and abundant produce. The
moss-grown fruit-trees remain to this day.
Speaking of this castle, my dear old friend Cosmo Innes, historian and
antiquarian, and for many years Sheriff of Moray, said: “Of domestic
comfort these great lords had not dreamt. This castle of Duffus had no
chimneys nor any window glass. When the winter winds blew fiercely
across the fen, they shut their stout window-boards—outside
window-shutters—and crowded round a fire of peats in the middle of the
hall, while the smoke found its way out as it could, and was welcome as
communicating some feeling of heat to the upper chambers.” What a
suggestive description of a cheerful home!
At a distance of about five miles, on another slightly raised site,
stand the stately ruins of the Palace of Spynie, which, six hundred
years ago, was the summer home of the Bishops of Moray, at a time ere
their magnificent Cathedral of Elgin (still so beautiful in its decay)
had been ruthlessly pillaged and destroyed. Notwithstanding its
ecclesiastical character, this too was a stronghold, with loopholed
walls of enormous thickness, watch-towers, and portcullis; and here
baronial warrior-bishops, backed by a goodly company of armed retainers,
held their supremacy over turbulent neighbours, not only by Divine
right, but by very emphatic temporal force, for, as has been well said,
“while holding the crosier in one hand, they could ever wield the sword
with the other, and act the part of commanders of their stronghold at
Spynie, whenever danger threatened.”
Various kings and great nobles had bestowed on the diocese of Moray
grants of land, forests, and fishing, and the revenues and temporal
power of its Bishops as “Lords of Regality of Spynie,” were so great,
that they could well afford to live as princes, and accordingly they did
so—their households including as many officials, with high-sounding
titles, as those of the greatest nobles.
The title of “Lord of Regality” was no empty name. It was a grant from
the Crown, conferring the right of legal jurisdiction in a specified
district, both in matters civil and criminal. The Lord of Regality held
the power of life and death, and was the arbitrary sovereign within its
territory. These extraordinary and most dangerous powers were bestowed
on various subjects, and in 1452 were granted by King James II. to the
Bishop of Moray and his successors. The jurisdiction extended over the
lands of the Church in the shires of Elgin, Nairn, Inverness, Ross,
Banff, and Aberdeen, and included no fewer than nine baronies, besides
other lands.
These magnificent Prelates were certainly “lords over God’s heritage” in
a most literal sense. Their daily lives practically exemplified how
“when a strong man armed keepeth his palace, his goods are in peace,”
for dire experience had taught them the need of supplementing their
spiritual armour with every efficient temporal defence. For though their
tenants and vassals were so far privileged that they were not liable to
be called upon to serve the king in time of war, they were not
infrequently compelled to act on the defensive.
Thus it was that when David Stewart of Lorn was made Bishop in 1461, and
was so sorely troubled by the Earl of Huntly as to be compelled to pass
sentence of excommunication against him, the wrathful Clan Gordon
threatened to pull the Prelate from his pigeon-holes (in allusion to the
small rooms of the old palace). The Bishop replied that he would soon
build a house out of which the Earl and all his clan should not be able
to pull him. Thereupon he built the great tower which has ever since
borne his name—“Davie’s Tower,” four stories high, with walls of solid
masonry nine feet in thickness.
Even the large windows of the upper rooms were defended by strong iron
bars, while the casement was occupied by vaulted rooms, doubtless for
the use of the men-at-arms. The roof is also vaulted and surrounded with
battlements. But neither devotion nor recreation were forgotten in the
building of this lordly palace, for within its great quadrangle stood
the Bishop’s Chapel, and also a spacious tennis-court, while round about
the precincts were gardens well supplied with fruit-trees. Here the poor
of the parish daily assembled at a given hour, when a bell was rung, and
from the postern gate an abundant supply of bread and soup and other
food was freely dispensed to all comers.
Many a strange change have these grey walls witnessed—ecclesiastical
pomp and martial display—pious and benevolent lives contrasting with
scenes of cruel warfare and outrage—but no such changes have been half
so startling as those physical transformations which have altered the
whole aspect of the land. In place of rich harvest-fields extending far
as the eye can reach, much of the country round and all the distant high
ground, was covered with dense natural forest, haunted by wolves, which
were the terror of the peasants, and afforded worthier sport for the
barons than their descendants can create for themselves in the slaughter
of home-reared pheasants.
Even the older members of the present generation found true sport in
abundance round the reedy shores of the great fresh-water Loch of
Spynie—the largest loch in the land of Moray—a beautiful sheet of water
which, after long resisting successive efforts at drainage, has within
the last forty years yielded to a determined attack, to the joy of the
farmers and the bitter regret of naturalists and sportsmen.
The latter might (but do not) find a corner of consolation in being
saved from the temptation to lay up for themselves after years of
agonising rheumatism, brought on by long hours spent in creeping among
marshy shallows on bitter winter mornings—such expeditions as were
deemed joy by my brothers, whose well-filled bag often included some
rare bird—a chance visitor of these shores. For until the middle of this
century the rushes and water-grasses and rank herbage of the swamps
offered such favourable breeding-grounds as to attract wild-fowl in
incalculable numbers; widgeon and mallard, pochard and pintail ducks,
teal, moorhens, and great flocks of coot. The loch was also the resort
of numerous wild swans, though these had already become rarer visitants
than of yore.
Many were the grey-brindled wild cats which haunted the neighbouring
fir-woods, and many the badgers, which burrowed like rabbits in the dry
banks, thence emerging to dig up the soil after the fashion of pigs. So
numerous must these creatures have been in bygone times, that they have
bequeathed their name to the lands of Inch-brock, “The Isle of Badgers,”
a name worthy of note in that it tells not only of the presence of an
animal now well-nigh extinct, but also of the time when the sea covered
these lowlands, and this now inland farm was a wave-washed isle.
The capercailzie, too (which, being interpreted from the Gaelic, means
“the cock of the woods,” and which had entirely died out of Scotland
till it was recently re-imported from Norway to Perthshire, where now
twenty to twenty-five brace sometimes figure in a single day’s battue),
was a regular winter guest in the pinewoods of Moray,[79] until the
latter part of the eighteenth century, when it ceased to make its annual
appearance, a loss not much regretted by the proprietors of the forests,
in which this “cock of the woods” leaves his mark in the destruction of
many a promising shoot.
But when we speak of the blue, fresh-water loch (familiar to many
travellers from the fact that some fifty years ago the railroad from
Elgin to Lossiemouth was constructed right across its shallow,
half-drained bed, so that the passengers looked to right and left across
its glassy waters),[80] we are speaking of a comparatively modern
feature in the landscape. At the time when these two grey ruins, the
Palace of Spynie, and the Castle of Duffus, were built, both stood on
the brink of a broad estuary of the sea—indeed, there is little doubt
that prior to A.D. 1200, the Castle of Duffus, on its green hill, was
actually an island. Up to the year 1380, Spynie was a secure harbour,
whence “the fishers of sea-fish” were in the habit of sailing with their
wives and children to the sea, thence bringing back fish in boats.
Thither came trading-vessels from France, Flanders, and Holland, for
until the fifteenth century this loch, known as the Bishop’s Port, was
the seaport for Elgin, involving only two miles of land transport. After
the closing up of the lake, Findhorn became the chief port. But in its
earlier days the sea-lake extended about five miles eastward of the
Palace of Spynie to a spot called Kintrae, a Gaelic name signifying “the
top of the tide.”
Strange to say, there are actually four places bearing this name, each
but a little distance from the other, and evidently marking the gradual
recession of the tide, as the coast-line changed. Finally we come to a
spot which still bears the name of Salterhill, and here, about fifty
years ago, the remains of a salt factory were discovered, in the course
of digging deep drains. There were also salt-works on the banks of Loch
Spynie itself, for they are mentioned in a deed by Bishop Bricius,
bearing date A.D. 1203.
Nearly two centuries later, in A.D. 1383, a protest was made by the Lord
Bishop Alexander Bar, against Lord John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, and the
burgesses of Elgin, respecting the right of the fishing and of the
harbour of Spynie, which he maintained to be within the ecclesiastical
marches, and to have ever been held by the Bishops of Moray, who, each
in his time, had “fishers, with cobles and boats, for catching salmon,
grilses, and finnacs, and other kinds of fish, with nets and hooks,
without impediment or opposition, the present dispute excepted.”
Later documents, bearing date 1451, still speak of the fishermen and
harbour of the town or burgh of Spynie.
All manner of shell-fish abounded in this ancient sea-loch, more
especially cockles and oysters. The latter, alas! have long since
disappeared from our shores, together with the alluvial mud in which
they formerly flourished, the sea-coast being now essentially sandy; but
their presence in older days is proven by the numerous shellmounds,
marking where clusters of fishers’ huts once stood. These
“kitchen-middens” have in recent years been discovered all along the
banks of this great basin. One of these (at Briggsies), which covers a
space nearly an acre, and is in many places about a foot in depth,
consists of masses of periwinkles, mussels, limpets, razor-shell,
cockles, and oysters, but especially oysters of very large growth, such
as may well increase our regret that they should have ceased to exist on
these shores. A good deal of charred wood mingled with the shells, tells
of the kitchen fires of the consumers, and one bronze pin has been
found, as if just to prove that these villagers were possessed of such
treasures.
A very remarkable confirmation of the old records regarding the ancient
bounds of the sea was obtained when the loch was drained, and _large
beds of oysters and mussels were found buried beneath the deposit of
fresh-water shells and mud_. Several anchors of vessels were found, and
sundry skeletons. In the same connection we may notice the name of
Scart-hill, _i.e._, the Cormorant’s hill, which now lies at some
distance inland, but which assuredly was originally on the sea-shore.
When the recession of the ocean deprived the bishops of their natural
harbour, and the fish-supply could no longer be landed at their very
door, they still retained their right to the coast fishing; and so, in
the year 1561, we find the Bishop and Chapter of Moray granting a
charter for “the fishing called the Coifsea” (which we now call
Covesea), to Thomas Innes, in consideration of certain payment in kind,
the Bishop reserving the right of purchasing the fish caught at the rate
of twenty haddocks or whitings for one penny, a skate or ling, twopence,
a turbot, fourpence, and a _seleich_, or seal, for four shillings.
The harvest of the sea included cod, skate, halibut, haddocks, whitings,
saiths, crabs, and lobsters. The latter continued abundant until the
close of the eighteenth century, when an English company established a
lobster-fishery in the bay of Stotfield, for the London market, and in
the first season forwarded sixty thousand lobsters alive to town, in
wells formed in the hold of the ship, the prisoners simply having their
claws tied to their sides. They were captured in iron traps, which seem
to have had the effect of frightening the lobsters away from the coast,
for, like the oysters, their presence here is now a tale of the past.
The lobsters, when captured, were stored in a marine prison, till an
opportunity presented itself for sending them to the southern market;
and the lobster-catchers were apparently not very discriminating in
their selection of a suitable spot where these cases should be sunk.
Hence, in April 1677, we find an appeal from the Captain of a
trading-ship, _The Margaret_ of Inverness, who, having occasion to call
at the port of Crail, summoned a pilot to take in his vessel. He says:
“Ane Inglish man being heir had two Lapister-kists[81] in the
harbour-muth, and the boatmen towed close to them, and they aleadge that
they did losse two hundred Lapisters, for which the Bailies heir has
fyned me in thretie punds Scots, and arested and lodged me in prison
till I will pay the same, which I doe think ought not to be payed by me,
since that I had a Poileot, and the chists lay right in the midle of the
harbour-muth.”
No historical record tells how or when the sea threw up the wide barrier
of shingle and sand which in later ages separated it from the loch,
transforming the broad estuary into a brackish lake with wide-spreading
marshy shores, extending as far as Gordonstoun.
That the change was gradual seems proven by the formation of a series of
raised beaches, distant about a mile inland from the present coast-line,
and forming a succession of plateaus covered with large rounded stones,
extending for about three miles along the shore. This curious ridge
averages a height of twenty feet above the sea-level, and is from fifty
to a hundred yards in width. It is known that in these remote times, the
River Spey, which now enters the sea at Fochabers, flowed far more to
the west, and probably brought down from the mountains those vast
supplies of gravel and water-worn boulders. But though the Spey may have
brought the material, the process by which the separation of the sea and
lake was effected is all a mystery.
Whether, as some suppose, by sudden storms, or else by gradual recession
of the ocean, certain it is that when Boece wrote his _History of
Scotland_ (which, though not published till 1526, was probably written
earlier, since we learn that the author was born in Forfarshire in
1465), the sea was shut out from the lake; and though he mentions that
in his time old persons remembered the lake being stocked with sea-fish,
and although the river Lossie continued to flow right through the loch,
certainly as recently as 1586 even salmon had all forsaken the loch, and
were replaced by pike and trout, and multitudes of eels.
The cockles and oysters, too (the possession of which the Bishops
maintained as their right), had disappeared with all other denizens of
the salt sea, and in place of the brown, tangled seaweeds, fresh-water
plants had sprung up. The old historian specially noted the abundant
growth of _swangirs_, whatever they may be, on the seeds of which the
wild swans love to feed, and large flocks of these beautiful birds
floated in stately pride in the calm blue loch, while multitudes of
wild-duck and all manner of water-fowl found refuge among the tall
bullrushes and sedges.
[Illustration:
_C. F. Gordon Cumming._
THE PALACE AT SPYNIE, 1860.
]
“In this region,” says he, “is a lake named Spiney, wherein is
exceedingly plentie of swans. The cause of their increase in this place
is ascribed to a certeine herbe, which groweth there in great abundance,
and whose seed is verie pleasant unto the said fowle in the eating,
wherefore they call it swangirs; and hereunto such is the nature of the
same, that where it is once sowne or planted it will never be destroyed,
as may be proved by experience. For albeit that this lake be five miles
in length, and was some time within the rememberance of man verie
well-stocked with salmon and other fish, yet after that this herbe began
to multiplie upon the same, it became so shallow that one may now wade
through the greatest part thereof, by means whereof all the great fishes
there be utterlie consumed.”
Very lovely in those days must have been the view from “Bishop Davie’s
Great Tower,” overlooking the wide expanse of quiet lake, fringed with
willows and rustling reeds and dark green alders (precious to the
fishers as yielding a valuable dye for their nets), while beyond the
recently created ridge of shingle lay the great stormy ocean, and the
watchers on the tower might mark the incoming of the fleet of
brown-sailed fishing-smacks, or catch the first glimpse on the horizon
of the approach of some gallant merchantman (or perchance a smuggler’s
craft) bringing stores of claret and brandy, and other foreign goods.
The lake extended from Aikenhead in the east, far to the west of the
ancient salt-works at Salterhill, etc., close to Gordonstoun, and
ferry-boats took passengers across from point to point.
About the centre of the loch rose the island of Fowl Inch, where
multitudes of water-fowl found a quiet breeding-place, while the west
end of the loch was dotted with green islets called holmes, which were
covered with coarse, rank pasture, called star grass. In days when no
foreign grasses had yet been imported, this natural growth was precious,
so in the summer-time the cattle were carried by boat and turned loose
on the isles to graze. Of these isles, the principal were those known as
Wester Holme, Easter Holme, Tappie’s Holme, Skene’s Holme, Picture
Holme, Long Holme, Little Holme, and Lint Holme. This precious star
grass also grew luxuriantly on some parts of the shore at the west end
of the loch, and gave its name to those favoured spots—such were the
Star Bush of Balornie, the Star Bush of Salterhill, and the Star Bush of
Spynie.
Now, he who has a steady head and sufficient nerve to venture on
climbing the ruined and broken spiral stairs (through the gaps of which
he looks down into the empty space left by the total disappearance of
the rafters and flooring which once divided the great tower into four
stories) may still stand on Bishop Davie’s battlement, but in place of
the broad lake, he will see only one little corner of blue water,
sparkling like a sapphire in a setting of yellow gold—the withered reeds
of autumn.
This small lakelet, covering about a hundred and ten acres, of which
eighty are open water, lies on the edge of the dark fir-woods of
Pitgaveny, and is carefully preserved by means of strong embankments
separating it from the broad main ditch, which has so effectually
carried off most of the water. Small as it is, it suffices to attract a
considerable number of wild-duck, and a number of black-headed gulls
breed on its margin, notwithstanding that their nests are freely
pillaged, as their beautiful green, russet, or brown eggs are in great
request for the table. About eighty dozen are thus taken each week
during the breeding-season.
A neighbouring tract of rush-land still shows that art has not yet
wholly triumphed over nature, but to all intents and purposes Loch
Spynie has vanished “like as a dream when one awaketh.” Gone are the
quiet pools, well sheltered by tall reeds, where wild geese and ducks,
herons and coots, were wont to rear their young; no longer does the
otter haunt the shore, or the booming note of the bittern echo from the
swamp whence the white mists rose so eerily, and where the fowlers
devised cunning snares for the capture of wild-fowl.
The thick mud, once tenanted by multitudinous eels, and which afforded
such excellent sport to the spearers, was turned to good account by
large tile-works, and the waters are everywhere replaced by rich green
pasture, dotted over with sheep and cattle or comfortable homesteads
with well-filled stack-yards; while straight, dull roads take the place
of the old ferries; the boatmen have vanished, the wayfarer trudges on
mile after mile across a monotonous expanse of ploughed land or
harvest-fields, and the wild cries of the water-fowl are replaced by the
shrill steam-whistles that tell of railway-trains, steam-ploughs, or
reaping-machines. In short, the days of romance and of ague are a dream
of the past, and unpoetic wealth and health reign in their place.
The means by which in the course of many generations this transformation
has been effected, form a curious chain of incidents in the history of
reclaimed lands. For many years after the separation of the sea from the
loch, the River Lossie continued to flow in its ancient channel, passing
right through the loch, draining the surrounding land, and carrying
superfluous water to the sea. There is reason to believe that the
Bishops, who were then almost sole proprietors, assisted this natural
drainage by the cutting of deep lateral ditches, by which means some
land was reclaimed, and the loch became so shallow that a road of
stepping-stones was constructed right across it, so that the Bishop’s
Vicar, after preaching to his congregation at Kinnedar (or “The head of
the water”) might thereon cross to hold another preaching in Oguestown
(the ancient name for the parish church at Gordonstoun).
This road across the water was carefully constructed, and was known as
“The Bishop’s Stepping-Stones.” These were three feet apart, and on them
was laid a causeway of broad, flat stones, along which the great Church
dignitaries might walk in safety. There was also an artificial island
near the Palace of Spynie—measuring about sixty paces by sixteen. For
what purpose it had been constructed no one can guess, but it was built
of stone, bound together by crooked branches of oak—a strange survival
of those oak-forests which flourished in this district at the time when
the Danes occupied Burghead, and came to repair old galleys and build
new ones at Rose Isle, compelling the inhabitants to cut timber for this
purpose in the oak-forests.
Now only bleak, bent-clothed sandhills stretch along the shore, and from
time to time an old root or log is upturned as if to prove that the
tradition was not wholly a delusion.
Not only have the oak-forests disappeared, but the inlet of the sea
where the galleys were constructed has been so wholly blocked up with
sand, that not a trace of it is to be found, nor is there any mark to
suggest at what period this portion of the coast can have been an
island, as its name indicates.
Strange to say, however, the fisher-folk in the neighbouring village of
Hopeman tell us that about forty years ago a foreign vessel (“we call
them all foreigners unless they’re British,” say the fishers), bound for
Burghead, being caught in a storm, ran right ashore near Lossiemouth, as
the captain understood by his very old chart that he could run into
Spynie harbour, and thence sail round under shelter by the back of Rose
Isle.
A similar change, though in a smaller matter, is suggested by the name
of Brae-mou, which was formerly Burn-mouth, at Hopeman, and also by the
neighbouring farm of Burnside, which lies on rising ground near the
sea-board of crags, but where now not the tiniest trickling brooklet is
to be found, nor the faintest indication of any fresh-water stream
having ever flowed.
There is, however, a tradition that two hundred years ago this and
several other burns flowed westward into the lochs of Rose Isle and
Outlet, both of which were filled up, and their very sites obliterated
in the awful sand-storms which, in the autumn of 1694 and spring of
1695, overwhelmed so many miles of the most fertile land along the
shores of Moray.
These streams, thus diverted from their natural channel, turned
eastward, and thenceforward flowed into the Loch of Spynie, thus adding
to its water-supply at the same time as the drifting sand had partly
filled up its basin. Consequently the loch overflowed its bounds, and
did vast damage to the surrounding lands. The Bishop’s causeway and
other artificial roads, the Spynie islet and various homesteads, were
lost to sight, and well-nigh to tradition.
After the Reformation, when Church and lands were divorced, the
Protestant Bishops, shorn of all temporal power, might indeed inhabit
the Palace of Spynie, but were compelled to be passive witnesses of the
decay of the ancient drain-works, and the enlargement of the lake. The
newly-created Lord Spynie never lived in the country, and suffered
everything to go to ruin, so the accumulating waters encroached on the
arable land to such an extent as to necessitate some very energetic
measures—nothing less than turning the course of the river Lossie and
providing it with a new seaward channel.
So in the year 1599 two of the proprietors, Sutherland of Duffus and
Archibald Douglas of Pittendreich, whose lands chiefly suffered, agreed
on this action.
How these “twa lairds” set about their work does not appear, but they
evidently failed, for early in the seventeenth century most of the
neighbouring proprietors combined, and having taken counsel with
Anderson of Finzeach of Aberdeen, a skilful engineer, they succeeded in
turning the Lossie into a new channel, separating it from the loch by a
great embankment. A map of the province of Moray, published in 1640 by
Sir Robert Gordon of Straloch, shows that this great work had been
successfully accomplished.
After this the waters were fairly kept within bounds for half a century,
during which men were too much occupied with stormy politics to give
much heed to the care of their lands. But in 1694 their attention was
rudely reawakened by the terrible calamity to which I have already
referred. The drifting sands which desolated so wide a belt of the most
fertile lands of Moray did similar damage, though in a less degree, in
this district, and so effectually filled the channels of all streams and
a great part of the bed of Loch Spynie, that its waters, now greatly
enlarged, again overflowed their bounds, covering the cultivated lands,
and presenting a wide but very shallow surface.
There was danger, too, lest the river Lossie should break its artificial
banks, and return to its original channel. So in 1706 the neighbouring
lairds bound themselves “to maintain and support the banks of the said
river with earth, feal (_i.e._ turf), stone, creels, etc., ... in order
to keep her in the channel where she now runs, and _where she had been
put by art and force_.”
Dunbar of Duffus next attempted to reclaim his own swamped lands, which
bore the appropriate name of Waterymains. He made great dykes and
embankments, set up a windmill with pumping machinery, and all went well
till a great tempest overthrew the mill and destroyed the machinery,
whereupon the waters once more overswept the arable lands, of which they
retained possession for many years, during which the neighbouring
proprietors endeavoured to decide on some system of concerted action.
This, however, was effectually prevented by the counter interests of the
family of Gordonstoun. It appears that when, in A.D. 1636, Sir Robert
Gordon purchased these estates, he had obtained a charter from John
Guthrie, Bishop of Moray, bestowing on him various lands, including
those of Salterhill, otherwise called Little Drainie, “with all singular
parts, pendicles, and pertinents, _together with the passage or
ferry-boat in the Loch of Spynie, with the privileges, liberties,
profits, and duties of the same_.”
In consequence of this charter, the family of Gordonstoun claimed the
sole right, not only to the possession of boats on the loch, but also to
the fishing and fowling and the use of the natural pastures on the
shores, and the determination to preserve these rights was a fruitful
source of litigation. It was therefore evident that whatever means were
adopted to diminish the lake would infringe on the “profits and
privileges” of the Gordons.
Thus matters were left until the year 1778, when we find local
chroniclers bewailing the neglect which had suffered “the ancient ditch”
to be so filled up that the loch was daily increasing westward, forming
a level sheet of water upwards of four miles in length, and covering a
space of 2500 acres, besides the broad margin of marshy land which,
owing to occasional overflows, was rendered worthless.
In the following year Mr. Brander of Pitgaveny (whose low-lying lands
near the loch suffered more severely than those of his neighbours),
resolutely set to work at his own expense, aided by his brother, to
restore the old drain, and enlarge it so as to form a canal of some
importance. He succeeded in lowering the surface of the lake upwards of
three feet, and recovered 1162 acres of land, of which eight hundred
fell to his own share, and the remainder to Gordonstoun and other
adjacent estates, which touched the shores of the loch.
Then it was that the stone causeway (which was dimly remembered in local
tradition) reappeared, as did also the artificial islet aforesaid, and
an isle at the west end of the loch, on which were the ruins of a turf
cottage. On excavating these, there were found a quantity of peat-ashes
and a number of coins, which had apparently been here buried on some
sudden alarm. Little did their possessor dream what changes would pass
over his humble home ere his hidden treasure was again brought to light!
For a while Sir William Gordon (the last of the strong-minded, energetic
race of the Gordonstoun family) looked on with comparative indifference,
supposing that this effort to drain the loch would prove as unsuccessful
as those of the past. But when he found that the waters had actually
fallen so low as to stop his ferry-boat, he deemed it necessary to take
active steps for the protection of his rights; and by application to the
Crown he obtained a new charter, bearing date 22nd July 1780, giving him
a right to “_the whole lake or loch of Spynie, and fishings of the
same_, with all the privileges and pertinents thereof, together with the
ferry-boat upon the said loch, with the privileges, liberties, profits,
and duties of the same.” The granting of this charter was vehemently
opposed by the neighbours, and the Messrs. Brander raised a
counter-action and counter-claims, which kept all the lawyers busy for
many years.
Meanwhile, nature and art continued in conflict. Three years after Mr.
Brander’s canal was finished, a great flood occurred which did it
considerable damage; the loch regained much of its lost ground, and the
ferry-boat continued to ply even to Salterhill until the beginning of
the nineteenth century.
By this time Sir William Gordon was dead, and the neighbouring
proprietors awoke to a conviction that it would prove remunerative to
unite their efforts in making a great new canal so as to reclaim more
land. Telford, the most eminent engineer of his day, was consulted. (He
was then engaged in the construction of the great Caledonian Canal.) His
suggestion was that a canal should be cut through the high ramparts of
shingle so as to give the loch a direct outlet to the sea, with mighty
sluices at the mouth to keep back the tide.
It was determined to carry out this scheme, but a considerable time
elapsed ere the neighbouring proprietors could come to an agreement
respecting their several shares in the expenditure, and in the division
of land to be reclaimed. This matter involved so much discussion, so
many surveys and reports, such examination of witnesses, and other legal
forms, that it dragged on, at an enormous expense, from 1807 to 1822!
when the dispute was finally submitted to arbitration by the Dean of
Faculty.
The work was, however, not allowed to suffer by these long legal
proceedings, and by 1812 it was completed, at a cost of £12,740, a sum
in which law-expenses formed a heavy item. The lowering of the waters
put a stop to ferry-boats, so it became necessary to construct a
turnpike road right across the loch. The workmen stood in some places
breast-deep in the water: thus the Bishop’s stepping-stones, ere many
years passed, were succeeded by a substantial turnpike road; and the
eels and pike, which still found a home in the shallow water, were
further disturbed by the construction of a pathway for “the iron horse.”
For about seventeen years all went well, and although the sluices at
Lossiemouth were of wood and not self-acting, involving constant
watchfulness on the part of the men in charge, the surface of the loch
was maintained at an almost permanent level. Some expensive alterations
were made in 1827 to avert a threatened danger of inundation in the
fishing town of Lossiemouth; but all such minor fears were swallowed up
in the reality of the great calamity which befell the whole land of
Moray in the memorable floods of 1829, when very heavy rains on the high
lands caused all the rivers to overflow their natural bounds and ravage
the land. Even the little Lossie, usually so peaceful, was transformed
into a raging torrent, and, bursting the barriers which had grown up
between her and the loch, overflowed the canal, leaving it choked with
great stones and earth; and rushing seaward, carried away the sluices.
Thus in a few brief hours did the mocking waters destroy the labour of
years.
In that widespread desolation, men had neither money nor inclination to
return at once to the battle; but ere long the canal was partially
cleared, the Lossie turned back into her accustomed channel, and high
banks were raised to keep her therein. The sluices, however, had
vanished, consequently the canal was simply a great tidal ditch, so that
the loch itself rose and fell about three feet with every tide. The said
ditch was, however, so far effectual that although the loch did overflow
a considerable amount of cultivated ground, its limits were well
defined, and the raised turnpike road continued perfectly dry.
As years passed by, however, the bottom of the canal gradually filled
up, and the loch thereupon commenced to spread further and further, so
that the neighbouring farms suffered severely, as field after field was
inundated. Finally, in 1860 all the tenant-farmers united in a petition
to the proprietors to set about a thorough drainage of the loch. This
was agreed upon, and after many consultations, the landowners resolved
to send a deputation to the fen-country of England, there to study the
various methods successfully adopted for marsh drainage. Three reliable
men were accordingly selected to represent the proprietors, the factors,
the tenants, while a fourth was added to the number as professional
adviser. These made a careful examination of the principal waterworks in
England, and of all the various kinds of sluices in use, together with
the methods of working them.
On their return they drew up a report, recommending, in the first
instance, a partial drainage by means of self-acting sluices, which they
calculated would, at a cost of £2430, so reduce the waters as to leave
only a pool covering about a hundred acres near the old Palace of
Spynie. Steam power, they considered, might, if requisite, be applied
later to a final drainage.
As there were at that time two thousand acres of land either under water
or so moist as to be worthless, there appeared a fair prospect of a good
return for the outlay. The works were accordingly commenced. Sluices
were put on at the sea, but months of toil and grievous expense were
incurred ere they were in working order. In the first instance, a
foundation of solid masonry had to be raised on what proved to be a
quicksand, and an artificial foundation of heavy piles had to be
prepared. Then the water poured into the cutting made through the
shingly beach on the one hand, and through the sand on the other—so that
the works were inundated both by sea and loch. The unhappy contractor,
who had never calculated on such a contingency, pumped and pumped with
might and main for months, till at length in despair, “out of heart and
out of pocket,” he quietly disappeared from the country.
It was necessary, however, that the work, once begun, should be
finished. It was accordingly undertaken by two local tradesmen, who in
due time accomplished it satisfactorily, but at a very heavy loss on
their contract. Four sluices of cast iron, each weighing eighteen
hundredweight, were so finely poised as to be opened or closed by the
rise or fall of a quarter of an inch in the surface of the water; and
when shut not one drop of water could ooze through from the sea into the
canal. Then followed the great labour of again digging and deepening the
canal, and ere the works were finally accomplished, the expenditure was
found to have been about £8000—rather an increase on the estimate!
Nevertheless, the work is considered to have been remunerative, as the
greater part of the two thousand acres thus reclaimed has proved
first-class soil, and even the poorer portions are capable of
considerable improvement.
Of course there is a necessity for some annual expenditure, as repairs
are needed to keep the whole in working order; but so far the drainage
of what was once the beautiful Loch of Spynie may be deemed a complete
success from an agricultural point of view, though to the naturalist and
the sportsman the farmer’s gain is an irreparable loss.
Much of the low-lying land thus reclaimed proved to be heavy clay, which
produced rich wheat-crops, and till about thirty years ago a large
proportion of this, and indeed of all the lowlands of Moray, was devoted
to this grain. Now, however, since Russia and California furnish such
abundant supplies, home-grown wheat is no longer a remunerative crop, so
the wheat-fields have vanished, and are replaced by barley and oats, and
especially by turnips, for Moray is now emphatically a stock-rearing
district, and the farmer’s energies are concentrated on care of his
beasts.
As concerns the fine old palace with “regality,” its glory rapidly waned
after the date of the Reformation. The last Roman Catholic Bishop,
Patrick Hepburn, was a man who fully understood the art of making
friends with the unrighteous mammon, and, foreseeing the storm of 1560,
he made provision in due season, and sought to secure a powerful ally
against the day of need. He therefore presented a large part of the most
valuable land of the diocese to the Earl of Moray, Regent of Scotland,
with fishing and other privileges. He also handsomely endowed many of
his own kinsfolks and friends, including his own sons, which was indeed
adding injury to insult, so far as his relation to the church was
concerned! Having thus disposed of her property for his own benefit,
forestalling other robbers of church lands, he settled down to a less
harassing life in the old palace, and there died at an advanced age.
At his death the remaining lands of the diocese were confiscated by the
Crown, and in 1590 were granted to Sir Alexander Lindsay, son of the
Earl of Crawford, who had found favour with King James VI. by advancing
ten thousand gold crowns to help to defray his majesty’s travelling
expenses when journeying to Denmark to wed the Princess Anne. Sir
Alexander accompanied his sovereign as far as Germany, when he was
attacked by severe illness, and had to remain behind. King James wrote
from the castle of Croneburg, in Denmark, promising to bestow on him the
lordship of Spynie, with all lands and honours pertaining thereto. “Let
this,” said he, “serve for cure to your present disease.” Sir Alexander
was accordingly created Lord Spynie, but not caring to live in the
north, he appointed a neighbouring laird to act as constable of the
Fortalice and Castle of Spynie. He himself afterwards lost favour with
the king, and in 1607 had the misfortune to get mixed up in a family
fight in the streets of Edinburgh, which resulted in his death.
This method of settling a family difficulty was curiously illustrative
of the times. The Earl of Crawford had assassinated his kinsman, Sir
Walter Lindsay, whereupon Sir David Lindsay of Edzell, nephew of the
murdered man, assembled his armed retainers to avenge the death of his
uncle. The two armed forces met at Edinburgh, whereupon Lord Spynie
interposed and strove to bring about a reconciliation. Hot words soon
resulted in a fray, and the mediator was accidentally slain, and fell
pierced with eleven wounds. Altogether this is a very pretty picture of
the mediæval method of settling such questions.
The title died out in the third generation, when the lands reverted to
the Crown, and have since passed from one family to another, till both
lands and ruined palace reached the hands of the present owner—Captain
Brander Dunbar.
Three centuries have passed by since the death of Bishop Hepburn, for
the first hundred of which the old palace was the seat of the Protestant
Bishops, to whom it was transferred after the Reformation. One of these,
John Guthrie of that Ilk (which means that he was the proprietor of
Guthrie in Angus), held it in the year 1640, when the Covenanters took
arms, whereupon he garrisoned the palace and prepared for a siege. But
when General Munro arrived with a force of three hundred men, the Bishop
was persuaded to surrender, so only his arms and riding-horses were
carried off.
Again, in 1645, when Montrose laid waste the lands of Moray with fire
and sword, the inhabitants of the neighbouring town of Elgin (the
cathedral town of the diocese) fled at his approach, to seek shelter for
themselves, their wives, and their treasure, in the Palace of Spynie,
which continued to be the episcopal residence till the time of Bishop
Colin Falconer, who died there in 1686.
Two years later, in the Revolution of 1688, the palace was annexed to
the Crown, as the lands had already been, and since that date it has
remained uninhabited. As a natural consequence, its timber and iron-work
have gradually been removed by the neighbouring farmers—the doors and
flooring, the oaken rafters, the iron gate, the iron chain of the
portcullis, have all disappeared, and only a portion of the massive
stone walls now remains to tell of the glory of this ancient palace.
Even the best of the hewn stones, and the steps of the old stairs, have
been thus appropriated. Never was transformation more complete than that
which has changed this once mighty ecclesiastical fortress and palace of
the sea-board into a peaceful inland ruin, whose grey walls, now
tottering to their fall, re-echo only the scream of the night-owl, or
the bleating of the sheep which crop the sweet grass within its courts.
Nevertheless, the position of those who occupy the reclaimed lands is by
no means one of absolute security. Not only might another year of
unwonted rainfall on the hills repeat the story of the floods of 1829,
and restore the Lossie to its self-chosen channel through Loch Spynie,
to the total destruction of all sea-sluices—but there exists the ever
present and far more serious danger on the west, where only a narrow
belt of low sandhills protects the cultivated lands from the sea, which
in the eighteenth century made such serious encroachments on the
neighbouring bay of Burghead.
When we note its ceaseless activity all along this coast (one year
building up huge barriers of great boulders to a height of perhaps
thirty feet or more, and in the following year carrying them all away,
to leave only a gravelly shore), we cannot ignore the possibility that a
day may very possibly come when, after a night of unwonted storm, the
morning light may reveal a gap in the sandhills, and the fertile lands,
which at eventide appeared so safe and so peaceful, may lie deep beneath
the salt sea, which, reclaiming its rights, has once more resumed its
original channel, passing round the back of Rose-isle, to restore to the
ancient harbour of Spynie its long-lost character.
NOTE D
_Elgin Cathedral and the Church of St. Giles._
There are some points of special interest connected with these ancient
buildings, apart from the ruthless destruction by “the Wolf of Badenoch”
of all that was beautiful in the town of Forres and the cathedral city
of Elgin. (It is a moot-point whether the possession of a picturesque
ruin still entitles the burgh of Elgin to this honorary title—a doubt
carefully expressed by a conscientious young revivalist in his prayer
for a special blessing on “this city of Elgin, _if it be a city_!” By
the way, it is interesting to note that in the Chartulary of Moray,
about A.D. 1190, the name Elgin was spelt as at present, although in
various later writings it is called Elgyn, Helgun, and Aigin.)
The first bishop of the Roman Church in the diocese of Moray (dating
about A.D. 1115) by some means obtained possession of the Culdee Church,
which had long been established at Birnie, near Elgin—a simple building
of wood and clay. The present church was built about A.D. 1150. Here the
first four bishops lived and died in all simplicity; but Richard, the
fifth bishop, removed the seat of the diocese to Spynie, and there a
stately palace was erected overlooking the lake, and in 1215 a site was
chosen for a cathedral. But Andrew de Moravia, the seventh bishop (a son
of the powerful family of Duffus[82]), deeming this site too isolated,
and otherwise inconvenient of access for the people, obtained the
sanction of Pope Honorius (about 1224) to build the cathedral at Elgin
on the fertile banks of the river Lossie. This was accordingly done, and
the noble building was completed ere the middle of the century, as were
also twenty-two manses as residences for the canons, all enclosed within
the great precinct wall. The canons were the clergy of parishes in all
parts of the diocese.
But misfortunes soon began, for the cathedral and the manses were
partially burnt in 1270, and in 1390 the ruthless Wolf of Badenoch
(Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan) raided the town and set fire to the
cathedral, destroying the nave and roof and all woodwork. The great
steeple, which is said to have been a hundred and ninety-eight feet in
height, was cracked by the heat, but the western steeples and beautiful
stone arches resisted the fire. All the manses were totally destroyed.
Only twelve years elapsed ere the town was again raided by another
“noble savage,” namely, Alexander Macdonald, son of the Lord of the
Isles, who plundered whatever had escaped the covetous Wolf. After this
the work of rebuilding the cathedral progressed slowly, the most
energetic worker being Bishop John Innes, who was consecrated in 1407
and died in 1414—a brief seven years, in the course of which he also
erected the Bishop’s House in Elgin, and carried out important works at
Spynie.
At the time of the Reformation no damage was done to the noble pile, but
eight years later, in 1568, the Privy Council ordered that all lead
should be stripped from the cathedral churches of Elgin and Aberdeen and
sold for the maintenance of soldiers, the sheriffs and bishops being
commanded to assist the spoilers. It seems certain that the nave and
side aisles were covered with slates and the chapterhouse with freestone
slabs, and that the lead only covered wooden spires crowning the three
steeples to protect them from rain and frost. Every trace of spires and
steeples has disappeared, doubtless from that cause.
This mean and sacrilegious theft was the first step towards the
destruction of the grand old cathedral, and met its just reward, in that
the vessel on which the lead was shipped at Aberdeen for sale in Holland
foundered on its voyage.
In 1637 a terrible gale unroofed the choir and blew down the rafters. On
28th December 1640 Gilbert Ross, the iconoclastic Presbyterian minister
of Elgin, in company with the lairds of Brodie, of Innes, and others,
took upon him to destroy the beautiful carved woodwork, their special
spite being directed against the Rood screen, separating the nave from
the choir, on one side of which was depicted the Day of Judgment, and on
the other the Crucifixion—all in colours and gold so rich that neither
had faded or tarnished, although for well-nigh eighty years they had
been exposed to rain and snow, sun and frost, which had free access to
the unroofed temple.
Mr. Ross, being of a utilitarian spirit, had the woodwork cut up and
brought to his own house as fuel. In those days, ere lucifer matches
were invented, it was very desirable to keep sufficient fire smouldering
all night to secure a kindling for the following morning, but it was
found that the wood so sacrilegiously hewn down would not keep alight,
so that it was necessary each morning to kindle fresh fire by means of
the cumbersome flint and steel, which required such patience ere light
could be obtained.
When, ten or twelve years later, a party of Cromwell’s soldiers were
quartered here, they could find nothing left for them to destroy save
the beautiful stone tracery of the great windows, and this they did most
effectually, especially in the western window over the grand porch.
In 1711 the great steeple fell, crushing the whole body of the building,
and for the next hundred years this mass of finely-hewn stone served as
a convenient quarry for the builders of modern houses in the town, while
the cathedral precincts became the receptacle for all the dirt and
rubbish of the town.
Not till the beginning of the present century was there a trace of even
antiquarian reverence for this sacred spot. Then, happily, an
enlightened provost was elected (Mr. King of New-mill) who commenced the
work of protection, and in course of time the Board of Public Works was
induced to take the matter in hand and undertake such repairs as have
prevented further decay, and preserve at least a memorial of how nobly
our ancestors could once build.
Though all the bishops were buried here, few of their tombs bear any
inscriptions. Among those of most special interest are a large, bluish
slab on the south side of the choir, beneath which lies the quiet dust
of Bishop Andrew de Moravia, the founder, under whose energetic
supervision it is probable that the stately building was completed. Once
it was covered with fine brass, but that, of course, was soon pillaged.
Another grave of interest, which can still be recognised by a sculptured
stone showing a recumbent figure in episcopal robes, is that of Columba
Dunbar, who was Bishop in A.D. 1430. He was a son of the Earl of March,
and nephew of John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, and was himself a powerful
noble who, on his journeys to Rome and to the Council of Basle,
travelled with a retinue of thirty servants. He died in his palace at
Spynie, and was buried in the cathedral, in the north transept, in the
aisle of St. Thomas the Martyr, now known as “Dunbar’s Aisle.”
Near his dust lies that of Sir Alexander Dunbar of Westfield, son of the
fifth Earl of Moray. He died in 1498, and is represented as a recumbent
figure in armour, having his armorial bearings on his breast-plate. Both
these monuments were much injured by the fall of the great steeple,
which totally destroyed so much that was interesting and beautiful.
Among the modern memorials is a slab of red granite in the chancel,
above the high altar. It was placed there in 1868 to the memory of the
Rev. Lachlan Shaw, who died in 1777, aged ninety-one, and was buried
here. He was the author of a very valuable _History of the Province of
Moray_, up to his own times.
Two burials of interest in the last century were those of the very
latest Duke of Gordon and his wife. He died in London, 28th May 1836.
His body was brought by sea, and landed near Gordon Castle, whence it
was conveyed to Elgin. On 31st January 1864 Elizabeth, his widow, died
at Huntly Lodge, and she was buried beside the Duke in the last
available space in the family vault beneath the ruins of the cathedral.
Lastly, I must not fail to claim reverent notice for the humble grave of
a truly devout lover of the cathedral, namely, John Shanks, one of the
earliest keepers appointed to protect the ruins, when the whole place
was still a wilderness of dirt and rubbish overgrown with tall grass,
brambles, and rank nettles. By his own exertions, without any one to
help him, this frail old man gradually cleared away the rubbish, laying
bare the original outlines of the building, and collecting such
sculptured stones as had escaped the spoilers. On his tomb is the
epitaph written by Lord Cockburn:—
“Here lyes
JOHN SHANKS, SHOEMAKER IN ELGIN,
Who died 14th April 1841, aged 83 years.
“For seventeen years he was the keeper and the shower of this
Cathedral, and while not even the Crown was doing anything for its
preservation, he, with his own hands, cleared it of many thousand
cubic yards of rubbish, disclosing the bases of the pillars,
collecting the carved fragments, and introducing some order and
propriety.
“Whoso reverences the Cathedral will respect the memory of this man.”
The fine parish church of St. Giles, which likewise was destroyed by the
malignant “Wolf,” was ere long rebuilt, and held its position as “The
Muckle Kirk” till the year 1826, an ugly but venerable building, which
for six hundred years had been the centre of worship in its successive
phases—Roman Catholic, Reformed, Episcopal, and Presbyterian. The two
latter prevailed alternately from A.D. 1560 to the present day, changing
seven times, and the internal fittings of the church having to be
altered accordingly, with very quaint effect.
Of course the chief changes were effected after the Reformation, when
all the altars were removed, and the side aisles, formerly left free for
private worship, were filled with hideous pews, as were also the
galleries erected in every available corner, and apportioned to all the
trades. There was the shoemakers’ loft (always well filled), the
glovers’ loft (these were once a numerous body, but they dwindled away
till only two remained, and when they died that craft disappeared from
the town). The blacksmiths had their loft, as had also the tailors and
weavers, who sat in a corner so dark that they could see nothing. For
the carpenters a special loft was erected, A.D. 1751, perched so very
high as to seem extremely insecure. The merchants of the town occupied a
gallery, which was hence called “the guildry loft,” and the magistrates
sat in state in a great pew of carved oak, beneath a canopy of the same.
There was a considerable amount of old carved oak about the church, and
the emblems of the various crafts were carved on all the trades’ lofts.
The north galleries were apportioned to the chief heritors of the
parish, namely, the Earls of Fife, Seafield, and Moray, and their
tenants and friends.
Prior to 1753 the roof of the church was of open woodwork, showing the
strong rafters, from which hung antique brass chandeliers, suspended by
chains of twisted iron. Though picturesque, the open roof was voted
draughty, so it was then plastered, and altogether the appearance of the
building was as unlike our reawakened views of seemly church
architecture as could well be imagined, notwithstanding five massive
pillars and arches on either side. Four of these on each side were
square, and the central one circular. They and the walls were supposed
to date from the twelfth century, having withstood the flames which
destroyed the roof and all woodwork when, in 1390, the church was burnt
by the ruthless Wolf of Badenoch.
Accustomed as we are to fine churches, brilliantly lighted for all
evening services, it is strange to think that till a quarter of the
nineteenth century had elapsed, this, the principal church of the
county, was only lighted once a year,[83] on the evening of the first
Sunday of November, when the half-yearly celebration of the Holy
Communion involved extra services. Then only were candles placed in the
four old chandeliers, twelve in each. The pulpit and the precentor’s
seat were likewise illuminated. The magistrates and all master tradesmen
had their own candlesticks, as had also each family and many private
individuals, so that the gloom was in a measure dispelled by about five
hundred flickering candles, most of which must have been tallow, with
long wicks constantly requiring snuffing, while the poorer folk could
only afford rush-lights, so the light could not have been very
brilliant; and as doubtless many candles were snuffed with fingers, the
result, combined with the then prevalent habit of spitting on the floor,
is not suggestive of cleanliness!
Now that lightning has become man’s ministering servant, and one magic
touch floods home, church, or street with vivid electric light, it is
really very difficult to realise how different all this was even in the
last century. I myself can recollect the housemaid’s box containing
flint and steel and tinder, with which to kindle a spark should the
smouldering kitchen fire have died out in the night. Just imagine how
wearisome was such a process on a cold winter morning, and how great was
the advance when the first large, coarse, lucifer matches were invented.
Well do I remember their strong sulphurous smell, and that of the
servants’ tallow candles, flaring and guttering. And in all the cottages
the only lamp was that small iron cruisie, specimens of which are now
treasured as antiquarian curios.
The old church narrowly escaped being the scene of a dire tragedy, for
on a certain Sunday in 1669, just after the congregation had “scaled”
(_i.e._ dispersed), the roof of the nave fell in with an awful crash.
The timber (which for three hundred years had supported the heavy slabs
of freestone which were used instead of slates) had decayed, and at last
suddenly gave way. The annals of the burgh record a meeting, “in the
South Yle of Saint Geilles Church,” for considering the rebuilding of
the said church, “laittlie fallen.”
Five years elapsed ere the necessary repairs were effected, after which
all was secure till 1826, when symptoms of decay were again detected in
the roof, and though the walls, pillars, and arches were so strong that
they would doubtless have stood for centuries, and the old church could
have been preserved at comparatively small expense, the town authorities
decided, to the dismay of the people, that the whole must be pulled
down, and a modern church of Grecian design be erected in its stead. The
Holy Communion was celebrated for the last time in the venerated
building of such varied memories, on the 1st October 1826, and the
following day our good old friend Dr. Rose, minister of Drainie (near
Gordonstoun), preached the thanksgiving sermon, and few of his hearers
failed to share in the regret he expressed at the doom of the
time-hallowed building. But no time was allowed for reconsideration, and
no sooner had the congregation dispersed than the contractor commenced
his work of demolition by unslating the roof, and two months later the
destruction was complete, and included the carting away of a vast
quantity of human bones from beneath the church and the surrounding
street, which for five hundred years had been the hallowed “God’s-acre”
of the burgh.
Just two years later, October 1828, the first service was held in the
new church, the congregation being summoned by the self-same bells which
had called their forefathers for so many generations to worship. The
account of them, culled by Mr. Robert Young from the annals of the
burgh, is so interesting that I venture to quote it:—
“The larger one, for sweetness and clearness of tone, is equal to any
in Scotland. It is said to have been recast in 1589 or 1593. The
little bell, called ‘the minister’s bell,’ bears the following
inscription—‘Thomas de Dunbar, me fecit. 1402.’ It therefore was the
gift of the Earl of Moray, and is a venerable relic of Roman Catholic
times.
“The big bell was rent in 1713 by a woman striking it violently with a
large key, for the purpose of rousing the inhabitants to quench a fire
which had broken out in the town during the night. It was recast 17th
August 1713, at the head of Forsyth’s Close, by Albert Gelly, founder,
from Aberdeen, the expense being defrayed by the magistrates; and it
is stated that upon this occasion many of the rich inhabitants of
Elgin repaired to the founding-place, and cast in guineas, crowns, and
half-crowns, and the poorer people smaller silver coins during the
time the metal was smelting, which contributed to enrich the sound as
well as the substance.
“On the king’s birthday, 4th June 1784, it was over-rung and rent by
the boys of the town, when it was taken down and recast at London on
the 17th October the following year, having the names of the
magistrates cast upon it. The expense was again paid by the town.
Since that time no further accident has occurred. It has continued to
pour out its sweet sounds daily, morning and evening, and to summon on
Sundays the congregations of the various churches in the burgh to
public worship, and may continue to do so for ages to come.”
It must be confessed that from a picturesque point of view Old Elgin in
the first half of the seventeenth century must have been a very much
more interesting town than it is now. Besides the fine old houses of the
cathedral dignitaries—the dean and canons—all the principal county
families had their “house in town,” occupying both sides of the High
Street, and foot-passengers walked beneath low arcades formed under the
projecting houses. All these were pulled down by degrees.
Curiously enough, though there is nothing to suggest that Elgin was ever
enclosed by walls, it had four gateways, which were all standing till
about a hundred years ago—namely, the East Port, the West Port, the
Lossie Wynd Port, and the School Wynd Port. It is supposed that each had
a portcullis, which was pulled down at night, but if so, they had been
removed at some earlier period. These gateways being narrow, and a
hindrance to modern traffic, their removal was decreed towards the end
of last century.
Speaking of the separate “lofts” in the old church assigned to each
trade, the gradual changes in these, as recorded in the annals, are
interesting. In the thirteenth century we find mention of gardeners,
carpenters, builders, armourers, shoemakers (called sutors), tailors
(called cissors), and glaziers, whose rare art entitled them to a French
or Latin name—_vitrearii_. About the year 1650 seven crafts were
recognised in the burgh—_i.e._ saddlers, smiths, metallers, tailors,
shoemakers, weavers, and butchers. But by the end of the century only
six are named—namely, smiths, tailors, glovers, shoemakers, weavers, and
carpenters—and these held the “exclusive right of exercising their own
trade,” any outsider venturing to encroach on their privileges being
forthwith prosecuted—a tyranny which became intolerable, and was finally
swept away after the Reform Bill was passed.
While the Loch of Spynie was still an arm of the sea, bringing cargoes
from France, Holland, and Germany, there and to Lossiemouth, within two
miles of Elgin, there was a considerable foreign trade; but even
allowing for a large export, the amount of malt manufactured in the town
was startling. There were between thirty and forty kilns and barns, each
substantial stone buildings about a hundred feet in length, for malting
and drying the grain; and in A.D. 1697, out of a population of three
thousand persons, no less than eighty were professional brewers and
distillers. One of these showed that within three months he had brewed
four thousand gallons of ale and four hundred gallons of _aqua vitæ_,
_alias_ whisky. Considering the very large amount of foreign wines,
brandy, and gin, which were imported from abroad, either above-board or
by smugglers, we may infer that the home consumption of our ancestors
was considerably in excess of that of their degenerate descendants.
I record this with something of the feeling of the man who, when he
heard any very bad story, always said: “Now, I DO like to hear that. I
say to myself, ‘I know I am bad, but I am NOT so bad as that!’”
It is, however, satisfactory and interesting to learn that early in the
eighteenth century the malting-trade had so fallen off that the kilns
were given over to the weavers, and were filled with their looms, each a
centre of busy work, and this continued till well into the nineteenth
century, when hand-looms gradually disappeared before the steady advance
of spinning-jennies and other machinery.
It is really very difficult to realise how few of the modern comforts
which we deem necessities existed a hundred years ago. Even in so
important a burgh as Elgin there seems to have been no attempt at
lighting the streets, and the first reference thereto in the burgh
annals is in November 1775, when the Council considered the propriety of
so doing, and decided to lay the matter before the principal inhabitants
and the trades, in consequence of which, in the following February, “Mr.
William Robertson was authorised, when he went to London, to purchase
twenty lamps, and also to buy caps for these lamps.” This tentative
effort was, however, soon given up, and once again the streets were left
in total darkness through the long, long hours of winter nights.
Prior to eight o’clock, there was here and there a faint ray from a
solitary lamp or candle in some shop window, but after that hour all was
darkness, and if any convivial entertainment was prolonged till after
dark (remember that sixty years ago the dinner-hour was generally about
3 P.M., and tea and card-parties began at 6), each party of guests was
escorted home by a servant carrying a lantern; and very necessary was
this precaution, for not only were there no side pavements for
foot-passengers, and carts were left standing all night at the sides of
the streets, but filth of every description was there accumulated.
But in 1830 a giant step in advance was made, and the town was lighted
with gas. At that time almost every one who journeyed at all did so on
horseback; so there were scarcely any private carriages in the town—only
a few post-chaises for hire at the principal inn, and to hire one of
these for conveyance to an evening party would have been deemed
ostentatious extravagance. Even two sedan-chairs, which were imported
for this purpose about 1818, obtained small patronage.
As regards the state of the streets, the town annals contain various
suggestive entries. In September 1776 the magistrates resolved to stop
the practice of thrashing and winnowing corn upon the street, and there
depositing heaps of stones and manure. They therefore empowered “the
officer who keeps the keys to secure and detain _whatever corn and straw
may be found thrashing upon the street, and the dung or stones flung
thereon, until trial_.”
In the following year the barking of dogs at night on the High Street
was declared to be so annoying that their owners were required to keep
them indoors, under a penalty of five shillings fine, and that the
offending dog be shot.
In 1778 the Council took note of the spouts or scuttles projecting from
holes in the side-walls of many houses, through which all manner of
filth was constantly ejected into the street, endangering the clothes of
passers-by. It was therefore ordained that these holes should all be
filled up. Large dunghills or “middens” were, however, allowed to lie
undisturbed in all the narrow wynds, at the doors of the houses,
breeding frequent fevers.
In 1818 it was recorded that the streets were full of holes, dangerous
to carriages and horses; and even so late as 1822 there were no side
pavements, and the safest place to walk was the raised ridge in the
centre of the street known as the “kantle of the causey,” or crown of
the causeway, which was in fact a ridge of stepping-stones, which in wet
weather afforded the only means of picking one’s way dryshod. The road
sloping downward on either side ended in wide open gutters, which
carried streams of rain-water and sewage to open ditches and larger
gutters (which were often so flooded as to be impassable), whence they
flowed into the river Lossie.
Yet—we must hope it was from some higher point!—water was daily brought
from the Lossie in pails for cooking purposes, and clothes were carried
to the river-bank to be washed. There were comparatively few wells in
the town, either public or private, and it was not till 1850 that the
town was fully supplied with pure water.
As regards firing, our ancestors were wholly dependent on peat and wood.
It was not till the year 1754 that a ship loaded with coals came to
Lossiemouth, the first cargo of the kind known to have been received at
that port. The demand was so small that “the importer could not dispose
of 100 barrels, but the country soon found out the value of the fuel. On
11th July 1768 the magistrates purchased from Thomas Stephen, senior,
merchant in Elgin, 40 chalders of coals, deliverable at Lossiemouth, for
behoof of the inhabitants of Elgin, at the price of 21 shillings and
sixpence Scots (1s. 9½d. per barrel), a very considerable price for
those days. On the 10th September they purchased 22 chalders additional
from Alexander Davidson, shipmaster in Aberdeen, at 1s. 10d. per
barrel.”
To ensure early hours, it was the duty of the town drummer to rouse the
inhabitants at 4 A.M., and to go the round of the town a second time at
5 A.M., lest perchance they might have fallen asleep again; and in like
manner at 9 P.M. he and his drum went round to give notice to all wise
folk that it was time to sleep, because
“Early to bed and early to rise
Makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise,”
and that
“He who would thrive must rise at five,
Though he who has thriven may lie till seven.”
The town annals record that in 1769 George Edward, tailor, was appointed
to this office, and as regards the healthiness of the system, there
could not be a better example than himself, for he never knew ache or
sickness till disabled by old age, and his son, who succeeded him in
office, carried on the tradition of his father.
In those days few people ever left their homes. In the whole parish of
Elgin there were not more than four gigs in use, and it was a very rare
thing for any one to go so far as Edinburgh; few indeed had ever visited
London. There was no public conveyance north of Aberdeen. A mail-coach
was started about 1812 to run between Aberdeen and Inverness. This it
did very slowly, being run by only a pair, and those between Elgin and
Torres are said to have been very decrepit old horses.
About the year 1819 a four-horse coach was started, which, leaving
Inverness at 6 A.M., reached Aberdeen at 10 P.M. The original mail-coach
followed suit, and the competition improved matters. About 1826 “The
Star” was started, to leave Aberdeen at 8 A.M. and reach Elgin at 5 P.M.
Other local coaches were started, but were frequently half empty. In
1835 “The Defiance” was started. Well do I remember it with its
first-class team, and the scarlet coats of the cheery driver and guard,
whose brass horn was the signal that news from the south was arriving.
In those days postage was so costly that letters were few and far
between. So small was the correspondence even in the beginning of the
nineteenth century, that the mailbags containing a very few letters were
carried by a post-rider on horseback three times a week. And now our
half-a-dozen heavy posts each day are too few for the present
generation, who must needs telegraph about every trifle, often to the
exceeding disgust of the country recipients of totally unnecessary
messages, for which they have to pay large sums as porterage.
“The Defiance” continued to keep up its credit, till it was driven aside
by the arrival of the railway, which was somewhat late in the day, as
the idea that so gigantic an undertaking could ever pay, was considered
preposterous, more especially the Highland line between Forres and
Perth, crossing barren mountains. However, energetic men pushed the
matter, and bit by bit from the year 1846 onwards, local railways were
made, and finally in 1865 all were amalgamated under the name of The
Highland Railway Company, with branches in every direction, and crowds
of busy folk and tourists from every corner of the world—a change indeed
since 1800! with the solitary post-runner and an occasional gig or
post-chaise.
One very important reason against travelling on wheels was that till
quite recent times there were no bridges: small streams were crossed on
stepping-stones, and large ones by ferry-boats, and when rivers were in
flood, passengers had to wait till the waters subsided, sometimes being
detained for days in most uncomfortable quarters, while each year had a
record of persons drowned in rashly attempting to ford the rivers.
With the exception of an old wooden bridge which crossed the Spey at
Boat of Bridge, and which was ruined at the time of the Reformation, and
a few other slight wooden bridges, there were none north of Aberdeen
till the early part of the sixteenth century, when the first stone
bridge over the Lossie was erected—a single arch founded on each side on
the rock, and consequently so secure that it remains in use to this day.
Unmindful of the wisdom of the earlier builders, a two-arch stone bridge
across the Lossie was built in 1814, but being founded on gravel, it was
swept away in the flood of 1829. Now we have stone or metal bridges for
road or rail in every direction.
NOTE E
Anne Seymour Conway was the only child and heiress of Field-Marshal
Conway, second son of the first Lord Conway. In 1747 he married Lady
Caroline Campbell, daughter of John, Duke of Argyle, and widow of the
Earl of Aylesbury. By her previous marriage she had another daughter,
who married the third Duke of Richmond. The mother and daughters were
all beautiful.
Anne Seymour Conway married the Honourable John Damer, eldest son of
Lord Damer, afterwards Earl of Dorchester. He proved a worthless
spendthrift, and on his father refusing to pay £70,000 for his gambling
debts, he shot himself, after a riotous supper at the Bedford Arms in
Covent Garden. Thus his young widow was left free to devote her long
life to her loved art, and to the congenial society of the most
cultivated of her generation.
When quite a young girl she had been taught by Mrs. Samon to model
dainty statuettes in wax; but when only eighteen, being provoked by a
sneer from David Hume, the historian, she set herself to chisel his bust
in marble, and succeeded so admirably that she then studied anatomy
under the best masters available. Her uncle, Charles Fox, and her
cousin, Horace Walpole, encouraged her wish to excel, and the former was
wont to say that “he prided himself more upon her talent than upon his
ancient descent.”
She worked very rapidly, and produced spirited groups of horses and
deer. Among her best-known busts are those of Mrs. Siddons, Miss Berry,
Miss Farren, Horace Walpole, one of Charles Fox, which she gave to
Napoleon, three of Nelson, one of which she presented to William IV.,
and which is now at Windsor Castle; another is in the Council Chamber at
the Guildhall. She executed a statue of George III., a bust of Queen
Caroline, and many others.
The two heads of Thamesis and Isis on Henley Bridge are her handiwork,
the latter being a portrait of her friend, Miss Freeman of Fawley Court.
The Academy in Florence awarded high honour to her life-like dog; while
Horace Walpole gave her osprey eagle the place of honour in his gallery
at Strawberry Hill.
On his death he left to her that fascinating home with all its contents,
but on the death of her mother, who lived there with her, she made it
over to the next heir, Lord Waldegrave, together with £2000 per annum
assigned for its upkeep. She then bought York House, Twickenham.
In 1828, being eighty years of age, she died and was buried in the
church at Sundridge, Kent, where her mother was already laid, probably
because Coombe Bank in that parish had long been in the possession of
the Argyll family.
Her tablet in the chancel of the church describes her as
“Sculptrix et Statuaria Illustris Femina.”
By her desire, her working tools, apron, and the leash of her favourite
little dog, Fidele, were buried with her.
NOTE F
_Conditional Immortality_
Most Christians have been brought up to such implicit belief in our
being all necessarily immortal, that the mere suggestion that the plain
literal teaching of the Bible is that immortality is a conditional,
special gift, is generally received with grave disapproval. Yet if the
references to this subject are read without preconceived convictions,
all seem to prove that although GOD created man capable of Eternal Life,
man did not secure the gift, and I find nothing whatever to show that
immortality either of soul or body was then conferred on him.
The story of man’s first disobedience simply records the warning, “In
the day that thou eatest thereof, thou shalt surely die,” followed by
the curse, “Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.” There is
not a word that could possibly suggest that immortality was conferred on
him, to enable him to endure eternal punishment for temporal sin. On the
contrary, everything goes to show that the Gift of Immortality was
specially reserved. “Lest” (having now sinned) “he take also of the Tree
of Life, and eat, and live for ever,” man was driven out of Paradise,
and cherubim and a flaming sword were placed to guard the approach to
the Tree of Life.
Observe that before he sinned he was not debarred from eating of it. He
had the option of doing so, but did not.
No sooner had the Devil succeeded in inducing man to subject himself to
the penalty of death, than ONE stronger than he undertook to take man’s
nature upon HIM that by HIS perfect Sacrifice HE might “destroy death,
and him that had the power of death, that is, the Devil,” and obtain the
right to bestow on man the Gift of Immortality. “For GOD so loved the
world, that HE gave HIS only begotten SON, THAT WHOSOEVER BELIEVETH ON
HIM should not perish, but have EVERLASTING LIFE.” In Romans ii. 7 St.
Paul says that to those who by patient continuance in well-doing, _seek
for Immortality_, GOD gives ETERNAL LIFE.
Again, in the plainest and simplest words we are told that “The wages of
sin is death” (simple death—not miraculously preserved life in torture),
“but the Gift of GOD is Eternal Life, through JESUS CHRIST.” THIS GIFT
OF LIFE IS THE KEY OF THE WHOLE GOSPEL—the “good news” concerning HIM,
IN KNOWLEDGE OF WHOM STANDETH OUR ETERNAL LIFE. “WHOM TRULY TO KNOW, IS
LIFE EVERLASTING.”
Having thus “brought Life and Immortality to light through the Gospel,”
CHRIST is justly said to have abolished Death; and now HE proclaims to
all, “Whosoever will, let him take the Water of Life freely.” Now, for
the first time since the expulsion of man from Eden, do we hear again of
the Tree of Life, no longer guarded by a flaming sword, but as the gift
which CHRIST offers to HIS redeemed. “To him that overcometh will I give
to eat of the Tree of Life, which is in the midst of the Paradise of
GOD.” “Blessed are they that do HIS commandments, that they may have
right to the Tree of Life.”
The horrible doctrine of the eternity of evil has developed as the
natural sequence of a belief in inherent immortality. If once we fully
grasp the grand central truth that everlasting life is ours solely
through union with CHRIST, WHO IS OUR LIFE, the Pagan theories of a hell
as meaning everlasting life in torture, crumble away almost of their own
accord, yet by their lurid light men have for centuries distorted the
words of Scripture, forcing them to fit their preconceived ideas.
Look, for instance, at the general character of the illustrations used
by OUR LORD and HIS inspired servants, as symbols of the doom of the
unsaved. If they intended to suggest continuity of existence under most
adverse circumstances, they would certainly have made use of such
figures as are most enduring in a furnace—such as minerals or metals. So
far from this, every type seems purposely selected to denote utter
frailty and the most perishable nature, or the most evanescent, such as
“smoke,” “the early dew that passeth away,” “light clouds,” “a dream
when one awaketh.”
Of enduring materials, such as metals, we hear only when they are “to be
tried in the fire” for their own purification, to make them fit for the
MASTER’S use, as when “HE sits as a Refiner of Silver,” patiently
waiting till the purified metal reflects HIS own image.
But the swift destruction of those who will not accept HIS salvation is
invariably compared to that of the most fragile substances—“an
earthenware vessel broken to pieces” (frail, crumbling eastern pottery),
“a garment eaten by the moth,” “thorns cut up and burned in the fire,”
“bundles of tares tied up ready for burning, BEFORE the grain is
garnered” (Matt. xiii. 30), “as stubble devoured by fire,” “like
withered grass,” “as wax melteth before the fire,” “like burning tow,”
“like chaff in the furnace of unquenchable fire” (that is, a fire which
will burn till there is no more fuel to consume), like wood or hay—in
short, every image suggests the most total and absolute destruction of
whatsoever is cast into that furnace.
To those who refuse “HIM that speaketh from Heaven,” St. Paul has told
us that “Our GOD is a Consuming Fire”—not a Preserving Fire which shall
endow whatever is thrown into it with miraculous vitality in order to
enable it to endure torture for EVER, and EVER, and EVER, without being
consumed.
The same MASTER WHO told us that HE came to seek and to save lost men,
told us that HE will also say: “Those MINE enemies which would not that
I should reign over them, bring hither, and slay them before ME.” They
would not accept HIS gift of enduring life, so even the life which they
have is taken from them. That HE will utterly destroy HIS enemies is
most plainly revealed, but by swift destruction, not prolonged existence
in agony.
How can any one believe that HE WHOSE NAME IS LOVE would choose from HIS
realm of perfect bliss, to look for ever and ever upon the beings HE
once so dearly loved, enduring never-ending agony, which is only made
possible by HIS miraculously endowing each with the capability of
continued existence in ceaseless enmity to HIMSELF—or else uttering vain
agonised prayers, to which (still more incredible) HE can listen unmoved
throughout Eternity. Which of the creatures in whom HE has kindled one
spark of HIS love could endure to know that this mass of individual
misery was to continue day and night for ever and ever, while they
themselves were in perfect bliss?
Apart from the certainty that the divine flower of mercy CANNOT thus
wither and die in Heaven, the eternal suffering of human beings
necessarily implies the eternal continuance of evil, and therein an
everlasting triumph of the Devil, whereas we are expressly told by St.
John that the SON OF GOD was manifested that HE might destroy the works
of the Devil. And the same reason is given by St. Paul, “That through
Death, HE might destroy him that had the power of Death, that is the
Devil.” St. Paul has also told us that “The last enemy that shall be
destroyed is Death.”
Not till this is accomplished can Christ’s victory be completed. The
Lord of all Creation must reign alone in HIS universe, and THAT CANNOT
BE till every trace of the consequences of sin—the work of the
usurper—has been utterly effaced.
Then, only when all things that do offend have been totally and for ever
destroyed, can HIS perfect reign begin on that “new earth, wherein
dwelleth only Righteousness.”
Then, too late, it will be known how large a share of antagonism to GOD
has resulted from the false teaching about HIS revelation concerning
future life and death. I doubt whether in any other way has HIS love
been so persistently “wounded in the house of HIS Friends,” as by this
unjust misconstruction of HIS words.
The marvel is how Christians can have gone on from generation to
generation, blindly accepting such horrible tradition. It can only be
accounted for by the belief that the devil has persuaded them to hold
this dark, discoloured glass between themselves and GOD. Yet they do
hold it, and cling to it, quite as strongly as to any article of the
creed, and it is only too certain that a multitude of really earnest
Christians will buzz like angry hornets round any one who ventures to
suggest a future less appalling than the hell of their imagination—that
most subtle device of the adversary to misrepresent GOD, and estrange
men from HIS love.
Yet from the careless attitude of even earnest Christians it is
impossible to believe that they in the smallest degree realise the
meaning of the eternal duration of such a life in death, otherwise their
whole lives would of necessity be absorbed in one agonised effort to
rouse their fellows to repentance.
As an instance of the perverted meaning attributed to many passages,
take such an one as 1 John v. 11–13: “GOD HATH given to us Eternal Life,
and this Life is in HIS Son. He that hath the SON HATH LIFE; and he that
hath not the SON OF GOD, _hath not Life_.” This statement is in the
plainest words reiterated throughout the Gospel, yet so skilfully has
the enemy sown his tares amid the good seed, that men’s perverted
reading of this and all kindred verses is: “He that hath the SON _shall
have Life after Death_, and he that hath not the SON _shall live for
ever in torment_.”
Is not this precisely the meaning commonly attached to the same message
as spoken by St. Paul? “As sin hath reigned unto Death, so might grace
reign unto Eternal Life by JESUS CHRIST our LORD.” “The Wages of Sin is
Death, but the Gift of GOD is Eternal Life, through JESUS CHRIST our
LORD.” Surely these words are very clear; but the sower of tares has so
skilfully added his evil grain, that wherever in the Holy Scriptures we
find this contrast of death and eternal life, men mentally insert the
word “Eternal” before “Death,” and thus entirely pervert GOD’S message
of Love.
To me this view of CHRIST’S work, that THE ETERNAL LIFE NOW BEGUN IN ME
BY HIM IS THE SPECIAL GIFT WHICH HE DIED TO OBTAIN FOR ME, is infinitely
more precious and love-inspiring than was the belief that the primary
object of HIS dying for us was to save us from an immeasurable intensity
of punishment which in my secret heart I felt to be in excess of my own
deserts, or those of my fellow-creatures. Whereas now I can realise that
the life which I NOW live, I live by the faith of the SON OF GOD, WHO
loved me, and gave HIMSELF for me. Thus the dreaded hour of the
separation of body and soul which we call Death, becomes merely an
unpleasant incident in life nowise affecting its continuity.
I believe the choice of life to be entirely in our own option. If any
one prefers that death shall be to him the end of life and love, he has
only to glide along, and (always allowing for the last awful awakening
to judgment, and to realise what he has failed to secure) I believe that
he will eventually cease to exist in any form.
For my own part, I prefer the certainty of an eternity in light and
love, WHICH CAN ONLY BE SECURED BY ACCEPTING IT NOW, as the gift freely
offered to each one of us. And having accepted it, with my whole heart,
of course, I do most earnestly wish that all I care for here should do
likewise, that we MAY BE TOGETHER FOR EVER in that life of light and
gladness.
If any one cares to go deeper into this subject, I would refer them to
the volume which first awoke my own interest in it, _The Glory of Christ
in the Reconciliation of all things, with special reference to the
Doctrine of Eternal Evil_, by the Rev. Samuel Minton, M.A., of Worcester
College, Oxford, published in 1869 by Longmans, Green and Co. (Of course
the doctrine of the Eternity of Evil is a natural sequence of a belief
in Inherent Immortality.)
Amongst other authorities whom he quotes are MARTIN LUTHER and
ARCHBISHOP WHATELY. The former says, “I permit the Pope to make articles
of faith for himself and his faithful, such as, _that the soul is
Immortal_.” The latter says, “To the Christian all this doubt would be
instantly removed if he found that the Immortality of the Soul was
revealed in the Word of God. _In fact, no such doctrine is revealed to
us._”
_Life in Christ_, by the Rev. Edward White, published about thirty years
ago, came as a revelation of undoubted truth to many perplexed
Christians, who felt that their gravest difficulty crumbled to nothing
if the human soul was not created immortal. But so certain was the storm
of opposition which would encounter any Christian teacher or worker who
ventured to proclaim the new light which had dawned on his own soul,
that comparatively few had the courage to face it. (Just as men who love
the Episcopal Church too dearly to leave it, are compelled to make such
mental reservations as enable them to repeat that arrogant definition of
the Christian faith said to have been composed by a French Archbishop in
the fifth century, which is so unjustly attributed to poor St.
Athanasius, and which, I am told, was not adopted at Rome till the
middle of the tenth century, though it seems to have been accepted in
England about the eighth century.)
In his _Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans_, vol. ii. p. 212,
Bishop Gore says:—
“Careful attention to the origin of the doctrine of the necessary
immortality or indestructibility of each human soul ... will probably
convince us that it was no part of the original Christian message, or
of really Catholic doctrine. It was rather a speculation of Platonism
taking possession of the Church.”
In his book on Bishop Butler, the late W. E. Gladstone wrote:—
“_Another consideration of the highest importance is that the natural
immortality of the soul is a doctrine wholly unknown to the Holy
Scriptures_, and standing on no higher plane than that of an
ingeniously sustained, but gravely and formidably contested,
philosophical opinion.... We may perhaps find that we have ample
warrant for declining to accept the tenet of natural immortality as a
truth of Divine Revelation.”—_Studies on the Works of Bishop Butler_,
p. 197.
As regards the teaching of the Old Testament, or even of Jewish
tradition, it is certain that natural immortality could not possibly
have been understood, else how could the Sadducees, who denied any life
after death, have formed so strong a party?
The sect of the Sadducees seems to have originated about B.C. 250, and
that of the Pharisees about B.C. 150. Whereas the former denied that
there was any Resurrection, the Pharisees believed in an immortality
which doomed the wicked to endless torment, and the righteous to
transmigration. The latter doctrine is plainly implied in the question
which was asked by the disciples regarding the blind man to whom Jesus
gave sight, “DID THIS MAN SIN, or his parents, that he was born blind?”
It is mentioned as an article of faith by several Jewish writers,
including Josephus. (Quoted by Dr. Pusey, _Everlasting Punishment_, p.
69, 3rd edition.)
When Christ put the Sadducees to silence (Matt. xxii. 31–34), it was by
telling them of the CONTINUITY OF LIFE of those who, while yet on earth,
have attained to be the recognised servants of God.
In a volume of Biblical notes I find the following concerning the
Sadducees:—
“‘_They divided the hierarchy with the Pharisees_, and the _Chief
Council_ seems to have been equally balanced between the two’ (see
Acts xxiii. 6–8). When Paul, in presence of the High Priest Ananias,
perceived that the one part were Sadducees, and the other Pharisees,
he cried out in the Council, ‘Men and brethren, I am a Pharisee, the
son of a Pharisee. Of the hope and resurrection of the dead, I am
called in question.’ And when he had so said, there arose a dissension
between the Pharisees and the Sadducees, and the multitude was
divided. For the Sadducees say that there is _no_ resurrection,
neither angel nor spirit, but the Pharisees confess both. In our
Lord’s time _the family of Annas the High Priest_ belonged to this
faction (Acts v. 17): ‘Then the High Priest rose up, and all that were
with him (which is the sect of the Sadducees).’”
Mr. Minton points out the literal origin of many of the illustrations
used concerning the awful fate of all who refuse to accept Christ’s gift
of eternal life, and that His references to them were illustrations
which those to whom they were addressed would certainly understand
figuratively, such as those alluding to “unquenchable fires,” which all
present knew to have long since burnt themselves out, having finished
their work of destruction.
He quotes the Rev. H. Constable, who writes concerning the last
judgment:—
“That awful scene represents the final destruction of evil, and not
the eternal perpetuation of it in its most aggravated and malignant
forms. All evil, physical as well as moral, represented by Death and
Hades, has been cast into the Lake of Fire. All who have wilfully
continued to be evil have been consigned to one awful place of
punishment. According to their deserving is their chastisement—‘few
stripes or many stripes.’ Gradually life dies out in that fearful
prison. They who WOULD NOT find Life, have found Death, and the dead
know not anything. There is no eternal antagonism of good and evil, no
eternal jarring of the notes of praise and wailing. Evil has died out,
and with it sorrow. Throughout GOD’S world of Life, all is joy and
peace and love.”
“Then (after the accomplishment of the doom described in Rev. xx. 14,
15, and Rev. xxi. 8) there shall be no more curse, and no more death,
neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain. For
GOD HIMSELF shall dwell with men, and shall wipe away all tears from
their eyes. HE will swallow up Death in Victory.
“Is it not amazing that men should profess to believe these glorious
and most blessed promises and yet for one moment conceive such a
possibility as that their fulfilment should be co-existent with the
Eternity of Evil, and of the continued existence through endless ages
of countless myriads of GOD’S creatures, enduring the most appalling
torture, and (so far from HIS wiping all tears from off all faces)
that the weeping and gnashing of teeth (which our LORD has told us
will accompany the terrible moment when HE has finally shut the door
of mercy), shall continue through all eternity!
“Whereas HE has said that nothing shall then exist which is not
reconciled to HIM.
“LORD, open the eyes of THY servants to see the horror of horrors that
their imagination has substituted for the glorious future set before
us in THY WORD of a universe reconciled to THEE, and THYSELF ALL IN
ALL.”
“THY WILL BE DONE.”
While touching on such solemn subjects, I cannot refrain from referring
to another matter in this present life, in which the GOD of infinite
love and compassion is maligned. HE says of HIMSELF that, “Like as a
father pitieth his children, so the LORD pitieth them that fear HIM. HE
doth not willingly afflict the children of men.”
HE created everything in HIS world “very good” and very happy, and there
was no pain or suffering till HIS enemy had succeeded in bringing in sin
and consequent death. GOD’S will is the happiness of HIS children. And
yet it is chiefly when horrible accidents occur, and in every form of
sorrow and anguish, that we strive to say “THY WILL BE DONE,” ignoring
the context “as it is done in Heaven,” where HIS Will is done, and there
is no pain, nor any grief, because HIS enemy who causes the suffering
has no power there.
On this subject Mrs. Josephine Butler writes:
“Not until we recognise that there are two ruling powers in the world
can we ever be right in our estimate of or relation to the GOD of
Love—never till we recognise the dual government can we see straight.
It is a dual government which is at war now, but with a progressive
victory for the Benign and Blessed One, and defeat (with our help) for
the malign one....
“Have readers of the Gospel never fathomed the significance of the
words of Jesus: ‘Shall not this woman, whom Satan hath bound these
eighteen years, be healed?’ Again and again HE was angry with the evil
spirit which afflicted men and women. GOD is not the author of sin,
disease, pain, evil, death. These all come from another source. They
are maliciously inflicted evil” [as we read in the story of poor Job
and his trials—inflicted by Satan, though for some mysterious purpose
permitted by GOD up to a certain limit]. “Yet GOD is ever mending,
healing, bringing good out of Satan’s bad, making us heroic under
pains inflicted by the enemy, walking with us through the flames and
the floods of the Evil One’s creating, and making us HIS own
companions, working for the final victory.
“Was it GOD who tortured the demoniac boy, whose father brought him to
Christ? If it had been, would GOD’S Son have said: ‘Come out of him,
thou foul spirit, and enter no more into him?’ ‘GOD anointed Jesus of
Nazareth with the Holy Ghost and with power, who went about doing good
and healing all that were oppressed of the devil, for GOD was with
HIM.’”
On the other hand, of course we must not forget that some sufferings and
trials are for our education. According to His own Word, “As many as I
love, I rebuke and chasten.” And those marvellous sayings regarding our
LORD Himself in His human life—that “Though HE was the SON of GOD, yet
learned HE obedience by the things which HE suffered,” and that HE, the
Captain of our salvation, was made perfect through sufferings.”—Heb. v.
8; ii. 10.
But when in that awfully mysterious hour of HIS human agony HE cried,
“THY will be done,” that surely was, because HE was about to “taste
death for every man,” in order that “THROUGH DEATH HE MIGHT DESTROY HIM
THAT HAD THE POWER OF DEATH, THAT IS, THE DEVIL” (Heb. ii. 9–14), and so
by Himself enduring all, HE might conquer our enemy.
NOTE G
_Intercessory Prayer_
Well did Tennyson write—
“More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of;
Wherefore let thy voice rise for me like a fountain day and night.”
Little does the world know how many a mighty change has been wrought in
answer to the unknown prayers of many a faithful heart. The guardian
angel who thus ceaselessly pleaded for Roualeyn was a saintly woman,
Davina M. ... who in her beautiful girlhood had been the one pure love
of his life, and who loved him with such devotion that she stedfastly
refused to link her life with his from a conviction that it would be to
his disadvantage to marry beneath his own social rank. She lived to know
that her life-long prayer had been granted, and soon after his death she
also passed to the brighter world.
Something of that romance of sixty years ago is suggested in the poem of
“Euphemia” by his niece Eisa (the Hon. Mrs. Willoughby, now Lady
Middleton) in her volume _On the North Wind, Thistledown_, published by
King and Co. In that volume and in _The Story of Alastair Bhan Comyn_,
published by Blackwood, are woven many traditions of Morayland.
When travelling in the Hawaiian Isles, I chanced to see in a local paper
some anonymous verses on intercessory prayer, which seemed to me so
touching, that I will venture to reproduce them here:—
“I PRAY FOR THEE.
“When thou art very weak and weary,
When it is dark and all seems dreary,
And suddenly a light almost divine
Upon thy doubting eyes and heart doth shine,
And thou the way to go dost plainly see,
Know, dearest heart, that then I pray for thee.
Far off, in little chamber, I am saying
These words, all softly, and GOD hears me praying:
‘Dear Lord, I do not know
If all is well with him whom I love so,
But Thou canst tell.
O give him Light to see!
O with him ever be
Till all is well!’
“When with a weight of sorrow and of fears,
Crushed to the earth, thou weepest bitter tears,
Lo! gently round thee arms of tenderest love
Raise thee from depths of woe, and far above
Thou hearest a sweet voice saying ‘Trust in ME,’
Know, dearest heart, that then I pray for thee!
Then, with full heart of love to GOD, I’m saying
These words, all softly, and HE hears me praying:
‘O Lord, perhaps to-day,
Down in the dust,
He thinks not Thou didst say—
“Heart, in ME trust.”
O save him, LORD, in love,
O lift him up above
Out of the dust.’
“When all the answering beauty of the soul
Is throbbing, thrilling with the rapturous whole
Of Nature, as on odorous summer night
The tremulous stars thy senses all delight;
Thou feelest higher joys than these can be,
Know, dearest heart, that then I pray for thee,
For at my twilight window I am saying
These words, all softly, and GOD hears me praying:
‘Dear Father, as to-night
He sees the sky
With glorious beauty light,
To THEE on high,
Who this rare radiance wrought,
Raise his adoring thought
Above the sky.’
“Thus always, with full heart of love to GOD, I’m saying
These words, all softly, and HE hears me praying:
‘Dear Lord, both he and I
Are far from strong;
To each of us be nigh,
The way is long.
Perhaps he heeds not me,
JESUS, we both need THEE;
Make us more strong.’”
As these pages are not intended for publication during my lifetime, but
are my last message to many friends personally unknown to me, I venture
here to quote two letters addressed to a very dear friend, in the hope
that they may possibly prove helpful to some one who finds the like
difficulty in coming into personal touch with the Master.
“DEAR...,—The few words we exchanged last night have made me wonder
whether the doubts you seemed to express were genuine, or just spoken
for the sake of argument. But because I know too how many minds such as
yours, intellectual difficulties do seem insuperable (their very wisdom
raising earth-born clouds, which hide the truth, that to ‘babes’ seems
so clear and simple), I feel that I am bound to say plainly that the
result of my own fifty years of thinking on the subject has been to bind
me more firmly than ever to the simplest child’s faith in the Old Story
of the Cross and in THE FRIEND whose love and presence are to me
infinitely more real and more precious than those of any human being.
“And I do feel that, knowing Him as I do, beyond all possibility of
doubt—and loving Him, however unworthily—realising, as I have done even
in the brightest years of life’s young morning, how utterly dark and
cheerless my own life would be but for this ‘fellowship’ (St. John’s own
word—1 John i. 3—so I may write it without presumption), it would be
unpardonable in me not to say so plainly to any friend who may not yet
have been able to realise this—the only Life-giving truth—the old, old
story which Saul, the cultivated Roman Jew, the persecutor of the
despised sect, was impelled to go and preach to the super-refined and
learned Corinthians, that the crucified peasant Jew was in truth
Incarnate GOD, Who saw fit ‘to humble Himself even to death on the Cross
that He might make us the children of GOD and exalt us to everlasting
life,’ and Who does care for each one of us individually.
“As concerns our intellectual difficulties, we can surely trust these to
HIM who made our minds, till HE sees fit to make us capable of
understanding all that now perplexes us. Our personal acquaintance with
Himself is FAR CLOSER than any outside difficulty of that sort, and so I
for one am content to believe that there are many things far beyond my
comprehension in its present undeveloped capacity—things which I know I
must accept on trust till I pass from the present caterpillar stage to
the full, free-winged life when we shall know all the mysteries.
“Only once in my life was there a time—a long, weary time of sad
darkness, when cold earth-born clouds closed round me, so as to shut out
all the light of His companionship. I do not mean that I doubted His
real presence any more than I doubt the shining of the sun beyond our
visible rain-clouds, but for me there were only leaden skies,
impenetrable and unresponsive, with only now and then a gleam of the
blessed light. But I knew it was the just punishment of wilful
wrong-doing—‘a needful time of trouble.’ (For of course in one who does
know the Master and His love, sins which the world would not recognise
as such, must rank very differently from the world’s standard, and
though HE has promised to be our defence, that we may not GREATLY fall,
we all know too well how continually we do stumble.) But at last the
earnest of forgiveness was granted in the restored consciousness of His
presence—a change quite as distinct as that from the darkness of a
November fog to the glad summer sunlight.
“And now with my whole soul I do thank Him for His gift of light, and I
do realise ever more and more, how closely HE does draw us to Himself
when we WILL come to Him, and what a real and blessed possession is the
Eternal Life, which is His gift to us NOW—the gift of Him ‘WHOM TRULY TO
KNOW, IS LIFE EVERLASTING.’
“This is the truth which myriads have believed, acknowledging how
unnecessary it is that they should understand how or why it should be,
but have simply taken Him at His word, surrendering themselves wholly to
Him, and have found in Him all-sufficient rest for their souls. And not
only rest, but perfect sympathy and companionship.
“I know you do not class me as quite an idiot in other matters; surely,
then, you can believe that it is no mere delusion which is to me so
intensely real that it fills and satisfies my heart and all my being,
and which makes what we call living or dying so entirely matters of
contentment, because I am perfectly certain that nothing except my own
wilful yielding to what I recognise as sin can possibly separate me from
Him, and from the Love wherein He enfolds all who do willingly give
themselves to Him to be His own.
“Though we all do instinctively shrink from revealing our inner lives to
one another, yet those who have once realised all that this means,
cannot but crave that all ‘who call them Friend’ should share the same
secret of inward peace....”
On one occasion I sent this friend a very beautifully illuminated card
with the words, “The Lord shall guide thee continually,” and “Underneath
are the Everlasting Arms.” Much to my surprise, it called forth a letter
so unlike her usual gentle courtesy, that I felt constrained to reply:—
“You and I are constituted so strangely alike in almost every respect,
that from you, beyond any other friend I possess, I feel entitled to the
sympathy of a true understanding all round. This is why I cannot bear
that words which are to me the expression of all that is most precious
and restful in life should seem to you merely ‘ridiculous charms.’ I
know you only mean that keeping such words before one’s eyes is so, but
when I look back over all the years of my past life, and recognise that
the consciousness of ‘continual guiding’ and the sense of perfect safety
in the enfolding of ‘the Everlasting Arms’ have been my own mainstay in
almost every hour of every day, I feel that simply to keep such words
where my outward eyes must often rest upon them does help me continually
to remember that the events of my life are not a mere matter of chance,
but are all being planned for me by One who loves me.
“Alas! dear, I know this does not come home to you as it does to me; and
I fear that when you see me fussing over the trivial cares of every day,
you must think that my daily outward life tells little of the inward
peace that passeth understanding—a just inference, I own, judging from
outward seeming—yet not really true, for though I so often forget for
awhile, I do most truly believe that every tiny detail of everyday life
IS over-ruled, and ordered for me in perfect wisdom, as I have proven
through long years.
“When you told me how a very great botanist had asserted to you the
impossibility of your having found the night-blowing Cactus in a country
where you had actually sat up all night to paint it, I could not but
think how exactly his reasoning coincided with that of the intellectual
people who cannot believe what WE KNOW of the personal Love of our LORD.
YOU KNOW these flowers grow there, because you saw them. We know the
Love of our dear Lord because we are conscious that He is ALWAYS present
with us, and never fails or forsakes us, in sunshade or in shade.
“I quite sympathise with you as to formal ‘saying prayers,’ but if you
realise that you are always in the company of a dear Friend, whose
sympathy is so perfect that he understands every thought and wish of
your heart, so that all day long consciously, or even unconsciously, you
instinctively refer everything to Him, how can you think of a special
morning and evening talk with Him as ‘saying’ a form of words, no matter
how perfect?
“I do fully enter into your delight in your garden, though I have none
of your scientific knowledge of plants. But apart from joy in the
loveliness of flowers, I find a wondrous fascination in the perpetual
showing forth of ‘the resurrection of the body that shall be’ in the
ever-new miracles of glorious colour and fragrance evolved from
apparently dead sticks, ugly brown bulbs, and insignificant seeds.
“All such hints from the visible world become to me increasingly
precious, for the last few years have been marked by so very many
wrenches in parting from our nearest and dearest, that the whole
life-plant feels uprooted, at least all its fibres are loosened from
Mother Earth....”
NOTE H
Among the most noteworthy social changes within my memory, none is more
marked than the diminution in the use of alcoholic drinks of all sorts
in “respectable” society.
I cannot myself remember, what was a common occurrence up to a few years
before my birth, when the ladies frequently left the drawing-room before
the gentlemen left the dinner-table, knowing from their prolonged
absence that they would not be pleasant company. But up to thirty or
forty years ago the amount of wine which, as a matter of course, every
girl took at luncheon, dinner, and dessert, and often also at bed-time,
seems strange to remember, now that fashion has happily so greatly
changed. And if the girl was delicate, instead of recommending hockey or
tennis, the doctor’s prescription was generally an extra bumper of port
at 11 A.M.
It needed a Sir Andrew Clark to have the courage to proclaim that
“Alcohol is a poison, and as such must be classed with strychnine,
arsenic, and similar drugs.”
Here I must remark that although the old practice of hospitably
“pressing” guests to eat is happily an abomination of the past, this is
by no means the case as regards drink. If I refuse white bread at
dinner, no host expresses anxiety as to whether I would prefer brown
bread, or Hovis, or French roll. But in regard to wine, the variety of
offers is often wearisome, ending with, “Surely you are not a
teetotaller?”
And yet we know that there are a multitude of men and women to whom the
use of alcohol in any form is a really grave danger, and MANY WOULD
WILLINGLY ESCHEW IT BUT FOR THE DREAD OF BEING PECULIAR, AND OF HAVING
ATTENTION CALLED TO THEIR ABSTINENCE. It is partly with a view to
helping such as these that it is so desirable to multiply the number of
total abstainers, so that this fatal standard of good-fellowship may
soon become obsolete, and that it may be as much a matter of
indifference whether a guest drinks wine or not as whether he eats
bread.
But since we know that
“Evil is wrought by want of thought
As well as by want of heart,”
perhaps I may venture to point out to some hospitable ladies that the
practice of saturating many of the most attractive sweets with brandy,
rum, or liqueurs, is a most insidious source of danger to many who are
honestly trying to conquer the “drink crave,” and whose good resolution
has enabled them to resist the temptation when it comes undisguised, but
who are thrown quite off their guard by the innocent-looking cream, or
cake, or bon-bon, which contains quite enough of spirit to reawaken the
craving for more. Surely this thought, together with the danger of
temptation in our own kitchens, might avail to banish the use of alcohol
from our cookery.[84]
But quite apart from any desire to benefit our tempted brethren, the
strongest reasons for total abstinence are supplied by the plain
statements of the very highest medical authorities on the evil effects
on the human body of even the most moderate habitual use of alcohol, SIR
ANDREW CLARK says that more than three-fourths of the disorders in what
we call “fashionable life” arise from the use of alcohol, “a poison of
which even very small daily doses are injurious to perfect health, and
tend to gradually enfeeble various organs, whose breakdown some day is
really due to no other cause.” HE ASSERTS THAT IT IS THE GREATEST ENEMY
OF THE HUMAN RACE.
SIR WILLIAM GULL says: “I hardly know any more powerful source of
disease than alcoholic drink. I should say that alcohol is the most
destructive poison we are aware of.” DR. NORMAN KERR says he has been
able to trace three-fourths of his cases of heart-disease to its use.
SIR HENRY THOMPSON, in a letter to the late Archbishop of Canterbury
(Temple), states that A VERY LARGE PROPORTION OF SOME OF THE MOST
PAINFUL AND DANGEROUS DISEASES WHICH HAVE COME UNDER HIS NOTICE ARISE
FROM THE DAILY USE OF ALCOHOLIC DRINKS, TAKEN IN THE QUANTITY WHICH IS
ORDINARILY CONSIDERED MODERATE. “As to this fact,” he says, “I have a
right to speak with authority, and I do so solely because it appears to
me a duty not to be silent on a matter of such extreme importance.”
DR. MURCHISON ENUMERATES THE DISEASES OF VARIOUS ORGANS OF THE BODY
WHICH RENDER LIFE A BURDEN, AND WHICH MIGHT NEVER HAVE OCCURRED HAD IT
NOT BEEN FOR THE DAILY DOSE OF ALCOHOL. DR. ALFRED CARPENTER says:
“Alcohol is a virulent poison, and as such should be placed in the list
with arsenic, mercury and other dangerous drugs.”
May I advise all who are interested in the subject to invest one penny
in Sir Andrew Clark’s pamphlet, _An Enemy of the Human Race_, and
another in _Strong Drink and its Results_, by D. S. Govett, M.A.,
Archdeacon of Gibraltar, both published by the National Temperance
Depot, 33 Paternoster Row, London, E.C. The latter contains the evidence
of many leading medical men, and sums up thus: “Let no man think himself
or his family safe from drink’s deadly fascination. Remember how in
every generation men of the highest genius have become its slaves.
_Every one of these was once a moderate drinker, and intended so to
continue._ Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall.”
Most noteworthy is the change in the attitude of the clergy in this
matter. Fifty years ago it would have been considered _infra dig._ for a
clergyman to be a total abstainer. Now a very large proportion of all
denominations are so, and many of our Bishops and Archbishops throw the
whole weight not only of their teaching, but of their very practical
example into this effort to check the moral and physical ravages wrought
in our own land, as well as in those other countries to which we so
largely export the cruel fire-water.
This question in all its bearings formed the subject of many of
Archbishop Temple’s most powerful appeals to his countrymen. But I
cannot refrain from here quoting one passage from Dean Farrar, partly
because of the one Scriptural quotation which is so frequently waged
against total abstinence, namely concerning our Lord Himself having
provided wine at the marriage-feast—wine which was probably the
non-fermented juice of the vine. But few people seem ever to notice the
Scriptural references to THE TEETOTALERS OF JUDEA.
Dean Farrar writes:—
“You sneer at Total Abstainers from the altitude of your worldly
superiority, but the Scripture gives them its heartiest approbation.
GOD commanded His prophets to pronounce ON THE RECHABITES a
conspicuous blessing because they abstained from wine. Jeremiah speaks
of the health and happiness of the NAZARITES as the flower of the
youth of Jerusalem, for their strength and their beauty. SAMSON was a
Total Abstainer, whose drink was only from the living brook, and he
was the strongest man time records. JOHN THE BAPTIST, whom CHRIST
calls ‘the greatest of those born of woman,’ was a Total Abstainer.
The angel of the LORD in announcing his birth said, ‘He shall be great
in the sight of the LORD, _and shall drink neither wine nor strong
drink, and he shall be filled with the Holy Ghost_.’”
NOTE I
_Use of the Rosary_
This widespread tendency to the telling of beads is certainly one of the
strangest developments of devotion. We are apt to consider such vain
repetitions as peculiar to the Church of Rome, whereas we find that not
only do some four hundred and fifty million Buddhists find solace
therein, but also a vast multitude of Brahmins and Mohammedans.
Now, that Brahmins and Buddhists should thus keep a numerical tally of
their devotions is strange enough, but the adoption of this spiritual
treadmill by Mohammedans is more remarkable (though whoever has heard
the frenzied shouts of “_Allah el Allah! Allah el Allah!_” can never
doubt their faith in the efficacy of much speaking.) But that a
practice so little in accordance with the spirit of Christianity could
have been a spontaneous growth appears quite impossible, so it is only
natural to assume that it was imported from some heathen land, just as
the veneration for relics, the canonization of saints, the use of
rosaries, the divers orders of monastic life, the rigid vows of
poverty and asceticism, celibacy of the clergy, priestly robes and
shaven crowns, processions carrying banners, chanted litanies, use of
incense and holy water, and very many other ecclesiastical details—can
only be accounted for on the supposition, which, indeed, is well-nigh
a certainty, that they were adopted by the Christians of Egypt from
the practice of the Buddhists, by whom all these things were as
religiously observed long before the Christian era, as they continue
to be at this day.
Concerning the origin of the use of the rosary in Christendom (not its
Pagan origin, however!) Dr. Rock tells us that in early days the truly
devout were in the habit of reciting the whole Psalter daily. But as a
hundred and fifty psalms were certainly rather a lengthy recitation,
it became customary to substitute short prayers, which might be
uttered rapidly amid the stir and business of life, without requiring
undivided attention. Hence a hundred and fifty short “Aves” varied by
ten intervening Paternosters, and five Doxologies (thus dividing the
whole into ten decades, came to be accounted as meritorious an act of
devotion as the repetition of the whole Psalter.)
But as the omission of any of the number would have been esteemed
sinful, and the calculation was apt to be inexact, some mechanical aid
was desirable, and various expedients were devised. Thus Palladius has
recorded how the Abbot Paul, who made a point of repeating the
Paternoster three hundred times daily, that he kept count of his
prayers by the aid of a number of small pebbles, which he dropped into
his lap one by one till the tale was told. Then the simpler method of
counting on a string of beads worn round the neck was suggested, and
soon found favour with the devout.
The division of the Rosary into the fifteen decades of small beads for
the _Ave Maria_, with the large intervening beads for the Paternoster,
is generally ascribed to St. Dominic (born in Old Castille A.D. 1170);
but there is little doubt that this use of beads was common in Spain
before his time, and that it had been borrowed by the Spanish
Catholics from the Mohammedan dervishes who accompanied the Moors on
their invasion of Spain in A.D. 711, and who, in common with their
Syrian brethren, had adopted it from nations further east.
The ordinary Mohammedan rosary or _tasbih_ numbers ninety-nine beads,
often made of sacred earth brought from Mecca, but frequently only of
date-stones. Instead of a large bead to mark each tenth, a silken
tassel does this duty, and assists the pious Islamite in his
repetition of the ninety-nine names of God.
The Mohammedan rosary figures in a very curious ceremony practised on
the night immediately following a burial, commonly called “the night
of desolation” while the soul is believed still to abide with the
body, ere winging its flight to the place of spirits. About fifty
devout men assemble to perform an act of merit on behalf of the dead.
After reciting certain chapters of the Khoran, they repeat “_Allah el
Allah_” three thousand times, while one of the party keeps count on a
rosary of a thousand beads, each as large as a pigeon’s egg. Between
each thousand the exhausted worshippers pause to rest and drink
coffee. Afterwards several short prayers are uttered, each being
repeated a hundred times. The whole merit of this very severe bodily
exercise is formally assigned to the deceased; and on behalf of
wealthy men it is sometimes repeated for three nights running—a fact
rather suggestive of the pecuniary cost of such services!
How far Christianity has improved on this original may be somewhat a
nice question, for in such means of acquiring merit for the dead
neither Christians nor Buddhists are lacking, and in all Catholic
countries oft-told rosaries number Christian prayers for the deceased
by ten thousand times ten thousand.
It is believed that this celestial _abacus_—this method of reckoning
with heaven—originated with the Hindoos, who certainly are known to
have kept count of their oft-told prayers by means of bead-strings
from very early ages; but whether the invention was due to Hindoo
Buddhists or Hindoo Brahmins is not known. Probably, however, the
former may claim this merit, as they were so long the dominant
religion of India, and indeed three centuries before the Christian era
they had overspread all Asia, so that traces of their influence and
teaching are discernible even where successive waves of differing
faith have overswept the land.
To this day, the Brahmins of Guzerat and some other parts of India
carry chaplets of one hundred small and eight large beads, made of
sacred wood; and a truly devout man recites the _gāyatri_ one hundred
and eight times at the rising of the sun ere he proceeds to wash and
dress his idols. This mystic sentence is a short extract from the _Rig
Veda_—a meditation on the divine glory of the sun-god, and a prayer
that the Divine Giver of Life and Light may enlighten his
understanding.
The rosary commonly used by the worshippers of Vishnu numbers 108
smooth beads, made of the wood of the sacred Tulasi shrub.[85] These
represent the 108 most sacred titles of Krishna. In the course of the
elaborate daily morning ritual, certain formulas of worship are
repeated 108 times, count being kept by the aid of the rosary, which,
together with the counting-hand, is concealed under a cloth or in a
bag (which is called a Go-mukhi). Why this concealment is necessary
does not appear, unless there is some idea of not letting the left
hand know what the right is doing!
But it is equally incumbent on the worshippers of Siva, who, while
reciting his 1008 names and sacred attributes, keep count of their
task on rosaries of 32 or 64 rough berries of the Rudrāska tree,[86]
which are said to have originally been formed from the tears shed by
Siva in passionate anger. These berries have five sides, which are
considered symbolic of Siva’s five faces.
The hideous Saiva Yogis occasionally use grim rosaries of human teeth
collected from funeral-pyres, a more agreeable variety allowed by the
Vishnuvites being the use of lotus-seeds. The various sects have
slight differences in this respect. One at least, (that of Vallabha)
bestows the rosary of 108 Tulasi beads on each child as a token of
church membership, when it attains the age of from three to four
years, and is capable of repeating the eight-syllabled charm,
“_Sri-Krishnah saranam mama_,” which is, being interpreted, “Great
Krishna is the refuge of my soul.” Another Vishnuvite sect invests
each member with two rosaries—one in honour of Krishna, and the other
for the worship of Radhā.
The votaries of Ganesa, the elephant-headed god, use the seeds of the
kumala, or lotus, for this purpose, while the worshippers of Surya,
the Sun, prefer a string of small balls of crystal—miniatures of the
great crystals which symbolize the sun on the Shinto altars of Japan.
NOTE J
_Hair Offerings_
It is always interesting to note the same superstitions in divers
countries. In my book on _The Hebrides_, page 39, I related the
Gaelic-Danish legend of the “Whirlpool of Corrie Vreckan,” in which
the young Danish prince might have anchored in safety had he been
provided with a cable woven entirely of the long fair tresses of
Danish maidens of faultless purity. But, alas! one lock had been shorn
from the head of one whose fair fame was no longer spotless, so the
cable parted, and the prince and his vessel were sucked down, down, in
the raging waters.
I am told that in Malabar a cure for some diseases, and also a
recognised penance, is being tied up to a tree and undergoing a severe
flogging, after which a piece of growing hair is securely pegged into
the bark, and by a sudden wrench it is torn from the head and left
hanging on the tree as a votive offering.
Strange to say, this identical ceremony (minus the flogging) was long
practised at the village of Berkhampstead in Hertfordshire. The object
to be gained was the cure of ague, and a group of fine old oaks was
the scene of action.
I am told that in Sunderland a popular cure for whooping-cough is to
shave the crown of the head and hang the hair on a bush, in full faith
that as the birds carry away the hair, so will the cough vanish. In
Lincolnshire, a girl suffering from ague cuts a lock of her hair and
binds it round an aspen tree, praying it to shake in her stead. In
Ross-shire, where within the last fifty years living cocks were
occasionally buried as a sacrificial remedy for epilepsy, some of the
hair of the patient was generally added to the buried offering.
In Ireland, at Tubber Quan, near Carrick-on-Suir, there is a holy tree
beside a holy well, which are held in the deepest veneration. Thither,
chiefly on the last three Sundays in June, Roman Catholic peasants
make pilgrimage to worship St. Quan (whoever he may be); and having
gone thrice round the holy tree on their bare knees, each cuts off a
lock of his own hair and ties it to a branch as a charm against
headache. By the end of June the tree is fringed with countless locks
of human hair of all shades.
A recent visitor to some of these Irish holy wells enumerated amongst
many other votive offerings, thirty-nine crutches, six hand-sticks,
and a pair of boots!
NOTE K
_On the Medicinal Use of Animals in China and Britain_
These quaint druggists’ shops were indeed a strangely vivid
illustration of what must have been the general appearance of the
laboratory of the learned leeches of Britain from olden times until
really quite recent days—literally until the eighteenth century—as we
know from the official pharmacopœia of the College of Surgeons of
London, published in A.D. 1724, that unicorn’s horn, human fat, human
skulls, dog’s dung, toads, vipers, worms, and all manner of animal
substances, either dried, seethed, or calcined, were accounted
valuable medical stores. In the same medical directory for A.D. 1724,
centipedes, vipers, and lizards are especially enumerated as
possessing valued properties!
It will be interesting to glance at a few of these old prescriptions
as compared with those still in favour in China. Here is a letter from
a French Catholic Missionary in Mongolia. “May Heaven preserve us from
falling ill here! It is impossible to conceive who can have devised
remedies so horrible as those in use in the Chinese pharmacopœia, such
as drugs compounded of toads’ paws, wolves’ eyes, vultures’ claws,
human skin and fat, and other medicaments still more horrible, of
which I spare you the recital. Never did witches’ den contain a
collection of similar horrors!”
Mr. Mitford has told us how at Peking he saw a Chinese physician
prescribe a decoction of three scorpions for a child struck down with
fever; and W. Gill, in his _River of Golden Sand_, mentions having met a
number of coolies laden with red-deers’ horns, some of them very fine
twelve-tyne antlers. They are only hunted when in velvet, and from the
horns in this state a medicine is made which is one of the most highly
prized in the Chinese pharmacopœia.
With regard to the singular virtues supposed to attach to the medicinal
use of tiger, my cousin, General Robert Warden, told me that on one
occasion when, in India, he was exhibiting some trophies of the chase,
some Chinamen who were present became much excited at the sight of an
unusually fine tiger-skin. They eagerly inquired whether it would be
possible to find the place where the carcase had been buried, because
from the bones of tigers dug up three months after burial, a decoction
may be prepared which gives immense muscular power to the fortunate man
who swallows it.
I was indebted to the same informant for an interesting note on the
medicine folklore of India, namely, that while camping in the jungle,
one of his men came to entreat him to shoot a night-jar for his benefit,
because from the bright, prominent eyes of this bird of night an
ointment is prepared which gives great clearness of vision, and is
therefore highly prized.
Miss Bird, when travelling in the Malay Peninsula, was eyewitness of a
very remarkable scene when, a tiger having been killed, a number of
Chinamen flew upon the body, cut out the liver, heart, and spleen, and
carefully drained every drop of its blood. Those who failed to secure
these, cut out the cartilage from the joints. She learnt that the blood,
dried at a temperature of 110°, is esteemed the strongest of all tonics
and gives strength and courage. The powdered liver and spleen are good
for many diseases, but the centre of the tiger’s eyeball is supposed to
possess well-nigh miraculous virtues. So all these treasured fragments
were sold at high prices to Chinese doctors, who doubtless knew they
would not lose on the retail price!
From the qualities here attributed to tigers’ blood, we can better
understand how it came to pass that in the Tai-ping rebellion the
Imperial troops, having captured a rebel leader at Shanghai, roasted
him, and ate his heart and other vital organs in order to make them
brave! The case is not unique, as in that same terrible civil war the
Tai-pings were guilty of similar atrocities during the siege of Nanking,
though cannibalism _per se_ is a crime as deeply abhorred in China as in
Britain.
In Perak Miss Bird saw rhinoceros’ horn selling at a high price in the
drug-market, a single horn being priced at fifty dollars; and in Japan a
native doctor showed her a small box of unicorn’s horn which, he said,
was worth its weight in gold. He also expressed his faith in the value
of rhinoceros’ horn. One of the said rhinoceros’ horns was, as we have
seen, among the most valued treasures of the old druggist of Osaka. This
horn, and that of the unicorn, which seems generally to mean the
narwhal,[87] have ever been held in high repute throughout the East as
an antidote to poison, and cups carved from these horns were used as a
safeguard, because they possessed the property of neutralising poison,
or at least of revealing its presence.
And indeed the same virtue was attributed to them by the learned leeches
of Europe. At the close of the sixteenth century, the doctors of
medicine in Augsberg met in solemn conclave to examine a specimen of
unicorn’s horn, which they found to be true _monoceros_ and not a
forgery, the proof thereof being that they administered some of it to a
dog which had been poisoned with arsenic, and which recovered after
swallowing the antidote. They further administered _nux vomica_ to two
dogs; and to one they gave twelve grains of unicorn horn, which
effectually counteracted the poison; but the other poor dog got none, so
he died. Similar statements concerning this antidote, and also
concerning the value of elk’s and deer’s horns powdered, as a cure for
epilepsy, appear in various old English medical works of the highest
authority.
Not less remarkable is the efficacy supposed to attach to antediluvian
ivory, more especially the tusks of the mammoths which have been so well
preserved in Siberian ice that their very flesh has been found
untainted. There they have lain hermetically sealed for many a long
century, and now, when the rivers from time to time wash away fragments
of the great ice-cliffs, they reveal the strange treasures of that
wondrous storehouse. It may be a great woolly elephant with a mane like
a lion, and curly tusks, or a huge unwieldy hippopotamus, or a
rhinoceros, and the hungry Siberian bears and wolves fight and snarl
over these dainty morsels.
Here, then, in these marvellous ice-fields lie inexhaustible stores of
finest ivory, and this it is which the learned professors of the
Celestial Medical Hall value so highly. So these precious tusks are
dragged forth after thousands of years to be ground down and boiled to a
jelly, for the cure of vulgar Chinese diseases of the twentieth century.
Alas! poor mammoth!
Nor are these the only antediluvian relics which are thus turned to
account. Professor H. N. Moseley tells us of the “Dragon’s teeth and
bones” which he bought from the druggists of Canton, where they are sold
by weight as a regular medicine, and are highly prized in the _materia
medica_ both of China and Japan as specifics in certain diseases.
They proved, on examination, to be the fossil teeth and bones of various
extinct mammalia of the tertiary period, including those of the
rhinoceros, elephant, horse, mastodon, stag, hippotherium, and the teeth
of another carnivorous animal unknown. He obtained a translation of the
passage in the medical works of Li-She-Chan, which specially refers to
the use of this medicine. It states that “Dragon’s bones come from the
southern parts of Shansi, and are found in the mountains.” Dr.
To-Wang-King says that if they are genuine, they will adhere to the
tongue. This medicine must not come in contact with fish or iron. “It
cures heart-ache, stomach-ache, drives away ghosts, cures colds and
dysentery, irregularities of the digestive organs, paralysis, etc., and
increases the general health.”
Another medical authority, _The Chinese Repository_, published in Canton
A.D. 1832, states that the bones of dragons are found on banks of
rivers, and in caves of the earth—places where the dragon died. Those of
the back and brain are highly prized, being variegated with different
streaks on a white ground. The best are known by slipping the tongue
lightly over them. The horns are hard and strong, but if these are taken
from damp places, or by women, they are worthless.
From his examination of these so-called relics of the dragon (which
prove to belong to so many different animals which, in successive ages,
have crept to the same cave to die), Mr. Moseley points out how some
imaginative person probably first devised a fanciful picture of the
mythical animal combining the body of the vast lizard with the wings of
a bat, the head of a stag, and carnivorous teeth, which has become the
stereotyped idea of the dragon in all lands.
Even in Europe, fossil bones thus found together in caves were long
known as dragon’s bones, and accounted useful in medicine. Indeed, so
great was the demand for these and similar relics, that our museums and
scientific men have good cause to rejoice that their ancestors failed to
discover what stores of old bones lay hidden in our own sea-board
caves—as, for instance, in that wonderful Kirkdale cavern where the
mortal remains of several hundred hyenas were found guarding the teeth
of a baby mammoth, a patriarchal tiger, a rhinoceros, and a
hippopotamus. Or the caves along the Norfolk coast where Hugh Miller
tells us that within thirteen years the oyster-dredgers dragged up the
tusks and grinders of five hundred mammoths! Or those wonderful
zoological cemeteries where the fossil bones of cave-lions, cave-hyenas,
elephants, mammoths, hippopotami, woolly rhinoceros, red deer and fallow
deer, oxen, sheep, and horses, lay so securely stored for untold ages
beneath Charing Cross and Trafalgar Square!
Of the firm belief of the Chinese in the efficacy of medicines
compounded of the eyes and vitals of a human body we have had too
terrible proof, for it is well known that one cause which led to the
appalling Teintsin massacre in 1870 was the widespread rumour that the
foreign doctors (whose skill all were forced to admit) obtained their
medicines by kidnapping and murdering Chinese children and tearing out
their hearts and eyes. As this nice prescription is actually described
in their own books as a potent medicine, the story obtained ready
credence, and we all remember the result. Moreover, the same accusation
has repeatedly been spread on other occasions of popular excitement
against foreign teachers, and we need scarcely wonder that it should
obtain credence, when we find that one of the most esteemed acts of
filial devotion is for a son or a daughter to bestow a good slice of his
or her own flesh, to be administered, with other ingredients, to parents
suffering from certain forms of disease, which are otherwise deemed
incurable. Archdeacon Grey of Canton was personally acquainted with
various persons who had endured this voluntary mutilation![88]
I am not aware whether the Lamas of Peking have there introduced the
fashion of administering medicine from a drinking-cup fashioned from the
upper part of a wise man’s skull, but such medicine-cups are greatly
esteemed in Thibet and Mongolia, where they are mounted in gold, silver,
or copper.
Such details as all these are apt to sound to us somewhat as far-fetched
travellers’ tales, but it is certainly startling to realise how exactly
they describe the medicine-lore of our own ancestors, of which traces
survive amongst us even to this day. We know of several cases within
recent years when in the north of Scotland the skull of a suicide was
with great difficulty procured, and used as a drinking-cup for an
epileptic patient. Still surer was it deemed to reduce part of the skull
to powder and swallow it. Even the moss which grew on such skulls was
deemed a certain cure for divers diseases. In the official prescription
of the London College of Physicians, A.D. 1678, the _skull of a man who
has died violent death_, and the horn of a unicorn, appear as highly
approved medicines. In 1724 all human skulls are declared useful, and
multitudes were exported from Ireland to Germany for the manufacture of
a famous ointment.
Equally precious to the British leech of the last century were the ashes
of a burnt witch collected from her funeral-pyre. Such were deemed a
certain cure for gout or for fever, and eagerly were they gathered up
and treasured.
But just as the Chinese doctor sets most store by the animals imported
from foreign lands, so did our ancestors chiefly prize a preparation of
long-deceased Egyptians, or, as they were described among the standard
medicines quoted in the medical books of Nuremberg only two hundred
years ago, “The embalmed bodies of man’s flesh, called _mumia_, which
have been embalmed with costly salves and balsams, and smell strongly of
myrrh, aloes, and other fragrant things.”
The learned doctors of France, Germany, Italy, and Britain all made
great use of mummy, which was pronounced to be an infallible remedy for
many diseases. And so great was the demand for this ingredient, as to
lead to the establishment in Alexandria of a secret factory for
converting all manner of dead bodies into such profitable articles of
trade.
The apothecaries of England found an economical substitute in the bones
of ancient Britons. Thus Dr. Toope of Oxford, writing in 1685, tells
how, at the circles on Hakpen Hill, in Wiltshire, he had discovered a
rare lot of human bones—skeletons—arranged in circles, with the feet
towards the centre. He says, “The bones were large and nearly rotten,
but the teeth extream and wonderfully white.” Undisturbed by any qualms
of reverence for the ancestors of his race, he adds: “_I dug up many
bushells_ WITH WHICH I MADE A NOBLE MEDICINE!”
In truth, the human form divine received small veneration from the
philosophers of those days, when the bait most highly recommended for
the luring of fish was a compound of _man’s fat_, cat’s fat, heron’s
fat, powdered mummy, assafœtida, and various oils. In _The Angler’s Vade
Mecum_, published in 1681, it is stated that man’s fat for this purpose
could readily be obtained from the London chirurgeons concerned in
anatomy!
Referring to the little shops of the old Japanese apothecaries; the most
remarkable point of similarity between these and those of early English
druggists is suggested by the extensive use of calcined animal-matter,
recommended in the prescriptions which were most highly valued in
England before the Norman Conquest, and which are recorded in the
elaborate Saxon manuscripts, carefully preserved in our national
archives.
These “Leechdoms” are written in ancient black-letter characters, and
are curiously illustrated with pictures of the herbs and animals which
are recommended for medicinal use. From these it appears that upwards of
eight hundred years ago the Saxon hairdressers prevented the hair from
falling by applying a wash of dead bees burnt to ashes, and seethed in
oil with leaves of willow; but should hair be too thick, then must a
swallow be burnt to ashes, and these be sprinkled on the hair.
Wood ashes seethed in resin, or goat’s flesh or goat’s horn burnt to
ashes and “smudged on with water,” are recommended for any hard
swelling. For pain in the jowl, burn a swallow to dust, and mingle him
with field-bees’ honey, and give the man to eat frequently. For
erysipelas, failing a plaister of earthworms, take a swallow’s nest and
burn it, with its dung, rub it to dust, mingle with vinegar, and smear
therewith.
But, in truth, all animals were turned to good account in these Saxon
leechdoms, and the wolf seems to have been as highly esteemed as is the
tiger in Japan—a wolf’s head under the pillow was a pleasant cure for
sleeplessness, and the skull of a wolf, when burnt thoroughly and finely
powdered, would heal racking pains in the joints. An ointment made from
the right eye of a wolf was the best prescription the Saxon oculist
could command.
The bite of a mad dog might be cured by laying on the ashes of a swine’s
jaw; while the head of a mad dog, burnt to ashes and spread on the sore,
was a cure for cancer. The ashes of the elder-tree were applied in cases
of palsy, and imperfect sight was improved by an ointment of honey mixed
with the ashes of burnt periwinkles, always provided that certain mystic
words were uttered while gathering this plant (a wort which had special
power to counteract demoniacal possession).
Such “Leechdoms” as these were all very well in the tenth and eleventh
centuries; but it certainly is startling to find how little, if any,
advance medical science had made by the early part of the eighteenth
century, when the medical works most in repute contain numerous
prescriptions of animal substances, so inexpressibly loathsome as to
make it a matter of marvel how any one could be found either to prepare
them or to submit to their application. Salts of ammonia in the crudest
form were a favourite remedy for external or internal use.[89]
By far the least objectionable compounds were those prepared from
carbonised animals in the Japanese or early Saxon manner. We find the
ashes of burnt swallows and of their nests still in high favour for the
cure of dangerous sore-throats, and among the remedies for beautifying
the hair are enumerated, “burnt ashes of little froggs,” “ashes of bees
mixt with oyl,” ashes of goat’s dung, goat’s hoof, and cow’s dung, as
also the blood of a shell-crab. But a preparation of the burnt ashes of
swan’s bones, and the blood of a bat or a little frog, with the milk of
a bitch, is effectual for preventing the growth of hair.
For the disease called lethargie, the whole skin of a hare must be
burnt, also “the smoak of kid’s leather burnt, holden to the nose.” The
burnt hairs of the hare cures erysipelas, ashes of a hare burnt whole,
with ashes of burnt willow or ashes of the bark of the elm-tree cureth
scalding. The burnt hoofs of a cow or ankle-bones of a swine are the
cure for colic. For cancer, nothing better has been discovered than the
ashes of a dog’s head, or burnt human dung. As a valuable styptic to
staunch bleeding of the nose, burn the blood of the patient and snuff up
the powder thereof. Ashes of hen’s feathers burnt, and ashes of nettles
are also beneficial. So likewise were spiders pulverised, or a dried
toad worn round the neck. “Ashes of a burnt frog gleweth veins and
arteries and cures burning.”
The merit of these simple remedies was greatly enhanced by the use of
fine Latin names. Thus the most powerful known remedy in the treatment
of smallpox and dropsy, both for internal and external use, was a
preparation of powdered toad, administered under the name of _Pulvis
Æthiopicus_. In fact, the more nonsensical the remedy, the more need was
there for a high-sounding name!
We may well believe that for convenience sake many of these calcined
plants and animals were prepared at leisure, and stored, ready for use,
in cases of emergency. Consequently (though we can hardly flatter
ourselves that our ancestors were as exquisite in their neatness as the
Japanese) there is no doubt that the little druggist shops in Osaka gave
us a very fair notion of the surroundings, not only of an ancient Saxon
leech, but of the learned, Latin-quoting doctors of the last century, in
whose magician-like laboratories were stored earthenware jars of every
size containing the ashes of goat’s flesh, of dead bees, of wolf’s
skull, or swine’s jaw, of divers shell-fish, of worts and rinds without
number—nay, even of human skulls and bones. On the walls hung bunches of
dried herbs, and remains of birds and lizards, rats, moles, and such
small deer, together with skins of serpents, portions of mummies, horns
of stags, rhinoceros, narwhal, elephants’ tusks, and many another item
of the strange _materia medica_ of our own ancestors.
Nor need we at the beginning of the twentieth century (with all the
amazing progress made by medical science in the last fifty years)
pretend to have altogether extinguished faith in the old superlatively
nasty remedies. Certainly the simple ingredients are now generally so
refined as to be unrecognisable. Who that inhales the fragrance of _eau
de mille fleurs_ remembers that its principal ingredient is the drainage
of the cow-byre? or that the brilliant, transparent gelatine which
enfolds our bonbons is made from the sweepings of the slaughter-house?
But what I allude to is the survival of the old specifics as popular
folk-medicine, in use to this day among the peasantry in various
districts of Great Britain. The catalogue is almost endless, including
divers methods of applying black snails, eels’ blood, the hand of a dead
child or of a suicide, living spiders, hairy caterpillars, and other
strange remedies. For instance, there are places in England where the
country people still believe that the best specific for all complaints
of the human eye is to burn the flesh of a swallow and apply the ashes
to the part affected. The Japanese, who carefully prepared his dried
frogs, toads, and lizards, may learn with interest that the approved
treatment for scrofula at the present day in Devonshire is to dry the
hind leg of a toad and wear it round the neck in a silken bag, while for
rheumatism the toad must be burnt to ashes, and its dust, wrapped in
silk, is to be worn round the throat. Both in Cornwall and Northampton
poor toads are still made to do duty for the cure of nose-bleeding and
quinsy, while in various parts of England “toad-powder,” or even a live
toad or spider shut up in a box, is accounted a charm against contagion.
Frogs are well-nigh as valuable as toads to the sick poor. In
Aberdeenshire it is accounted a sure cure for sore eyes to lick the
bright eyes of a live frog, while the peasants of Donegal find wondrous
comfort in rubbing rheumatic limbs with dissolved frog’s spawn. It is
also believed in Ireland that the tongue which has licked a lizard all
over will thenceforth be endowed with a wondrous gift of healing
whatsoever it touches.
But it is when we come to the mystic serpent that we find the most
startling connection between the folk-medicine-lore of Britain and
Japan. Considering what insignificant little creatures are our British
snakes, it certainly is strange that they should be quite as highly
esteemed as are the great python-skins in the Chinese school of
medicine, wherein the skin of a white spotted snake is valued as the
most efficacious remedy for palsy, leprosy, and rheumatism.
Strange to say, in our old Gaelic legends there is a certain white snake
which receives unbounded reverence as the king of snakes; and another
legend tells of a nest containing six brown adders and _one pure white
one_, which latter, if it can be caught and boiled, confers wondrous
medical skill on the lucky man who tastes of the serpent broth.[90]
In some of the Hebridean Isles, notably that of Lewis, the greatest
faith prevails in the efficacy of water in which a so-called
serpent-stone has been dipped. Should such a charmed stone be
unobtainable, _the head of an adder may be tied to a string and dipped
in the water with equally good result_.
In Devonshire any person bitten by a viper is advised at once to kill
the creature, and rub the wound with its fat. I am told that this
practice has survived in some of the Northern States of America, where
the flesh of a rattlesnake, and especially its oil, are accounted the
best cures for its own bite. Some of the sturdy New Englanders even wear
a snake-skin round their neck, from a firm faith in its power of curing
rheumatism, a faith certainly carried by their fathers from Britain,
where the same remedy is still sometimes applied.
It is not many years since an old man used to sit on the steps of King’s
College Chapel, at Cambridge, and earn his living by exhibiting common
English snakes, and selling their cast-off sloughs to be bound round the
forehead and temples of persons suffering from headache—a valuable
remedy for overworked students!
In Durham an eel’s skin, worn as a garter round the naked leg, is
considered a preventive of cramp, while in Northumberland it is esteemed
the best bandage for a sprained limb.
So, too, in Sussex, the approved cure for a swollen neck is to draw a
snake nine times across the throat of the sufferer, after which
operation the snake is killed, and its skin is sewn in a piece of silk
and worn round the patient’s neck. Sometimes the snake is put in a
bottle, which is tightly corked and buried in the ground, and it is
expected that as the victim decays the swelling will subside.
This, however, relates to a different class of subject to that which has
led me into this long digression—namely the little drug-stores at Osaka,
with all their curious contents. I can only hope that, should these
pages ever meet the eye of my Japanese friend, he will acknowledge that
my interest in the medicine-lore of his ancestors was certainly
justifiable.
NOTE L
_Magazine Articles_
My first experience of writing a magazine article was in 1869, when I
sent a sketch of our “CAMP LIFE IN THE HIMALAYAS” to Dr. Norman Macleod,
who promptly inserted it in _Good Words_.
In subsequent years I contributed many papers to a great variety of
periodicals and newspapers, chiefly on topics which afterwards found a
place in my books of travel, such as one on “OILING THE WAVES,” which
appeared in the _Nineteenth Century_ for April 1882, and contained much
information gleaned from many sea-captains, seamen, and fishers on the
practical value of a very small amount of oil in preventing waves from
breaking in white crests, and so swamping vessels. So many cases were
quoted of ships which were undoubtedly saved by this simple safeguard,
that Lord Cottesloe called the attention of the House of Lords to the
paper, with the result that some small experiment by a lifeboat was
ordered, but the result was _nil_. The principal evidence on the subject
was reproduced in my book, _In the Hebrides_.
Of other oily papers I may mention one on “THE WORLD’S OIL SUPPLY,”
which appeared in _Blackwood’s Magazine_ in September 1884, and some
papers on “WASHING MADE EASY,” which told how some ingenious women in
New Zealand had discovered that by adding a little paraffin to the water
in which they were boiling their dirty linen all the dirt separated, and
scarcely involved any further trouble.
I was told that those papers attracted much attention; and it was
interesting to note how many new soaps straightway came into existence,
and have ever since been enormously advertised. But only one of them
gave any clue to the simple new ingredient to which they owe their
success, and of that one I have never seen a single advertisement,
therefore I have real pleasure in confiding to all my readers that it is
called “Evelyn’s Paraffin Soap,” made by Messrs. Ogston and Sons,
soap-makers, Aberdeen, and I consider it the best of any I know. (Of
course it will be said that this is an advertisement, but it is simply
the statement of a fact.)
In looking over a list of the subjects about which I wrote, not
connected with any of my books, I see that NOW they would be quite
commonplace; but they were by no means so at the time they were
written—as, for instance, my paper on cremation in the _Contemporary
Review_ for June 1883, “DE MORTUIS.”
So also in regard to a paper on “THE LEPER HOSPITALS OF BRITAIN,” which
appeared in _The Gentleman’s Magazine_, September 1884. The subject was
then so old as to be practically new to the current generation, so of
course it was pleasant to have been the one to disinter it. Rather a
curious thing occurred with regard to its publication. I had offered it
to one of the principal periodicals, which detained it for so many
months that I was satisfied that it had been accepted, and so I
abstained from asking troublesome questions. At length, however, I
ventured to do so, and my paper was at once returned to me, and at the
same time I observed that an article on the same subject was advertised
for the next number of the magazine in question. I at once despatched
mine to _The Gentleman’s Magazine_, and by the exceeding courtesy of
Messrs. Chatto and Windus (who at the very last moment managed to
postpone an article and insert mine), it was launched on the same day as
its rival. The similarity of the two was remarkable, all quotations
being identical.
A paper of specially curious interest, and for which I collected a great
number of very telling illustrations from ancient sculptures and from
modern life in many countries, was one to prove the evolution of the
tall pagoda from the original honorific umbrellas carried in procession
before or after a great man, not for use, but as a badge of rank. At
last, as in Burmah, seven or nine came to be placed above one another,
and so doubtless led to these silken umbrellas being reproduced in stone
erections of five, seven, nine, or even thirteen stories in height. This
paper, which I called “UMBRELLAS, AURIOLES, AND PAGODAS,” was published
in the June and July numbers of the _English Illustrated Magazine_ for
1888, and was very well received by the world which cares about such
matters.
Of some interest also were such papers as—
SOME EVENTFUL VOYAGES. _Blackwood’s Magazine_, March 1890.
WOLVES AND WERE-WOLVES. _Temple Bar_, November 1890.
UNFATHOMED MYSTERIES. (Spiritualism at Boston.) _Blackwood’s
Magazine_, May 1883.
MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS AND THEIR HOMES. _Blackwood’s Magazine_, April
1891.
PROFESSIONS FOR DOGS. _Blackwood’s Magazine_, November 1888.
STRANGE MEDICINES. _Nineteenth Century_, June 1887.
THE LOCUST WAR IN CYPRUS. _Nineteenth Century_, August 1883.
LOCUSTS AND FARMERS OF AMERICA. _Nineteenth Century_, January 1885.
THE WORLD’S WONDERLANDS. (In Wyoming and New Zealand.) _Overland
Monthly_, January 1885.
IN THE OLD MUNIMENT ROOM OF WOLLATON HALL. _New Review_, October and
December 1889.
OUR OLDEST COLONY, BOMBAY. _Macmillan’s Magazine_, January 1887.
SUNNY DAYS IN MALTA. _National Review_, September 1886.
OF FURRED AND FEATHERED FOES. (New Zealand.) _Gentleman’s Magazine_,
May 1882.
REVERED FOOTPRINTS. (Held sacred.) _Time_, July 1886.
FOOTPRINTS OF OLD. (Fossil and other.) _Sun_, March 1891.
PROPHECIES BY A HIGHLAND SEER. (Very remarkable facts in Ross-shire.)
_Belgravia_, September 1884.
A LEGEND OF INVERAWE AND TICONDEROGA. _Atlantic Monthly_, September
1884.
A NIGHT OF HORROR AT A HIGHLAND CASTLE. _Belgravia_, October 1886.
TWO BRITISH PILGRIMAGES IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY (to Iona and
Lindisfarne). _Cornhill Magazine_, August 1883.
STRIKING “ILE.” (Petroleum springs.) _Atalanta_, July 1889.
EARTH’S FIERY FOUNTAINS OF MOLTEN ROCK. _Atalanta._
EARTH’S BOILING FOUNTAINS. _Atalanta_, February and March 1888.
A FIERY FLOOD IN PENNSYLVANIA. _Atalanta_, August 1892.
DIVINING RODS, ANCIENT AND MODERN. _Quiver_, July 1887.
THE POSTMEN OF THE WORLD. _Cassell’s Family Magazine_, July and August
1885.
THE NEWSPAPERS OF THE WORLD. _Cassell’s Family Magazine_, August 1884.
ON CUTTLE-FISH AS A DAINTY DISH. _Cassell’s Family Magazine_, July
1883.
ON THE SOCIAL POSITION OF DIVERS ANIMALS. _Cassell’s Family Magazine_,
May 1887.
ALLIGATOR-FARMING. _Cassell’s Family Magazine_, June 1883.
DESTRUCTION OF THE AMERICAN BISON. _Good Words_, June 1884.
HOW MOTHER EARTH ROCKED HER CRADLE. (In Japan.) _Newberry House
Magazine_, July and August 1892.
REAL ESTATE IN VOLCANIC REGIONS. (Japan.) _Cornhill Magazine_,
February 1890.
VOLCANIC FROLICS. _Monthly Packet_, September 1886.
THE ERUPTION OF MOUNT TARAWERA. (Destruction of the Pink and White
Terraces, New Zealand.) _Leisure Hour_, October 1886.
THE ENDING OF THE CARNIVAL. (On the Riviera.) _Leisure Hour_, May
1887.
EARTHQUAKES IN DIVERS PLACES. _Leisure Hour_, June 1887.
THE GREAT YELLOW RIVER INUNDATION. _Leisure Hour_, March 1886.
THE HOME OF THE BLIZZARD. _Leisure Hour_, April 1888.
OUR BORROWED PLUMES. (Fine feathers make fine birds in many lands.)
_Leisure Hour_, August 1883.
THE HOT LAKES OF NEW ZEALAND. _Sunday at Home_, October and November
1886.
Etc. Etc. Etc.
INDEX
Abercromby, Louisa, Lady, 31.
Aberlour, 159.
—— Orphanage, 167.
Accident to my father, 124.
Adam’s Peak in Ceylon, 212.
Affectation, 33 and _note_.
Agnostic, 351, _note_.
Airthrie Castle, 151.
ALCOHOL, A DANGEROUS POISON—Evidence of Sir Andrew Clark, Sir William
Gull, Dr. Norman Kerr, Dr. Murchison, Dr. Alfred Carpenter, etc.,
462, 463.
Alexandria, 197.
Allahabad, 202.
Alma, The Battle of, 132.
ALNWICK CASTLE, 107, 141;
school for wood-carving, 142;
electric light even in dungeon, 146.
—— an Italian wedding, 143;
coming of age, 143.
ALTYRE, 1, 6, 53.
—— Gardens, 35.
Anaradhapura, 211.
Anglesea, Marquis of, 16.
Anstruther in Fife, 229.
Ant-hills, 46.
Any Soul to any Body, 377.
Applecross in Ross-shire, 206.
Apprentice, quaint agreement, 80.
Archbishop of Athens, 86.
Archery, Japan, 339.
Ard Patrick, Campbells of, 24.
Argyll, Duke of, 144, 214.
Arndilly, 159.
Ashburton, Lady, 108.
“As it is done in Heaven,” 453.
“At Last,” 378.
Atlantic Cable, 153.
Auchintoul, 207.
Australia, 218.
BADENOCH, Lords of, 1.
Badgers, “Inch-Brock,” 407.
Barnscleugh, 157.
Bass Rock, 123.
Bathing in Japan, 286, 310, 330, 382.
Batticaloa, Ceylon, 174.
Belhaven, Baron, 21, 157.
Ben Agan, 159.
Benares on the Ganges, 201.
Ben Rinnes, 159.
Birdsall House, 205, 206 _note_.
Birnie near Elgin, Culdee Church, 427.
Bishops of ARGYLL AND THE ISLES, Ewing, 33, 45, 156.
—— BRECHIN, Forbes, 31;
Jermyn, 33, 171 _note_, 207.
—— LONDON, Blomfield, 109.
—— MORAY AND ROSS, Eden, 158, 188, 191.
—— SAMOA, Elloi, 227.
Blind Chang of Manchuria, 362–364.
Bonnie Dundee at Duffus, 404.
Bothwell, Countess of, 85.
Boy nurses in Japan, 300.
Braille’s symbols adapted to Chinese, 355.
Brander, Mrs., 228.
Brechin, Forbes, Bishop of, 31.
Breechloaders, 117.
Bridge of Allan, 138.
Bridges, the lack of, 441.
Brief lives, 51.
Buddha’s tooth, 213.
Buddhist Pantheon, 275.
—— sects in Japan, 292.
Burghead, 69, 111, 402.
—— Burning the Clavie, 69.
Burning of New Testaments in Fiji, 224.
CADMAN, The Rev. William, 109.
Cadzow Park, 157.
Calcutta, 198.
California, 230.
Callum’s Hill, Crieff, Legend of, 376.
Campbell, Lady Charlotte, 15, 21;
her daughters, 15;
second marriage to Rev. Edward Bury, 19.
—— Lady Emma, 184.
Carbonised animal medicine, 297.
Castle Grant, 151.
Ceylon, first glimpse, 198.
—— two years in, 207.
Changes, 119.
Charleville, Countess of, 15.
“Chérie,” 43, 48, 103, 105.
Cherry blossom festival, 280.
CHILLINGHAM CASTLE, 107, 154.
—— cattle, 157.
Chrysanthemum shows, 283–286.
Circulating libraries in Japan, 253–263.
Clan Comyn or Cumming, 1.
—— Grant, last rising of, 161.
Claverhouse, 404.
Coaching days, 108, 440.
College House, Crieff, 371–375.
Compiègne, Life at, 154.
Comrie, village of, 192.
Comyn, The Red, 2.
CONDITIONAL IMMORTALITY, 443–452.
Consumption, 155, 156.
Conway, Anne Seymour (the Hon. Mrs. John Damer), 102, 422.
Cornish estates, 26.
Cornwall, 209.
Coronach, The Chieftain’s, 189.
Cothall, 6.
Covesea cliffs, 56, 57 _note_.
Craig-Ellachie, 159.
Cremation, 244–252.
CRESSWELL HALL, 102;
old customs, 105, 141;
dialect, 112.
Cresswell, Captain William, 125, 132.
Crieff, 192, 370.
Crimean War, 125.
CRUELTY of telling irreverent, or merely funny stories about sacred
verses, 462 _note_.
Cryptomerias, 289, 313.
Crystal Palace of 1851, 115.
—— at Sydenham, opening ceremony, 127.
Culbyn Sandhills, 55, 387, 395, 398.
Cullen House, 164.
Cumming the Fair, Seventh Bishop of Iona, 13.
Cumming, varied spelling, 2.
CUMMING-BRUCE, 12.
—— Elma, Countess of Elgin, 12.
—— The Rev. Charles, 13.
“DAILY DOSE OF ALCOHOL, the cause of disease,” 463.
Dallas, 6, 70.
Darsie, Mrs., 229.
DEATH _of my mother_, 43;
_of my father_, 136;
_of Captain Cresswell_, 132;
_of Oswin Cresswell_, 147;
_of my sister Seymour Cresswell_, 156;
_of The Master of Grant_, 164;
_of Earl of Seafield_, 166;
_of my sister Alice_, 171;
_of my brother John_, 174;
_of Roualeyn_, 175–181;
_of Penrose_, 183–190;
_of my sister Ida_, 180;
_of my sister Eleanora and George Grant_, 193;
of my half-brother Frederick, 194 _note_;
of the Rev. Fred. and Mrs. Langham, 222–224.
Devie and Dorbach rivers, 53.
Doll festival in Japan, 301.
Dovecots, 73, 97, 98.
Drainie, 87.
—— Dr. Rose, minister of, reminiscence, 70;
his last service in St. Giles’, 434.
Druggists’ shops of old Japan and old England, 296–299.
Duffus Castle, 404, 408.
Dunbar of Northfield and Duffus, 28–30.
Dungeons at Gordonstoun, 74, 94–96.
Dunphail, 8;
old castle of, 9, 10.
Dunrobin, 87, 94.
Duthil, 165.
Dyer, Henry, 232.
Dysart, Countess of, 151.
EARTHQUAKES in Japan, 319–326.
Easter Elchies, 159;
leave, 192.
Easy reading for illiterate Chinese, 359.
Ecclesiastical Censures, 83, 84.
Eddystone Rock, 207.
Elgin, formerly a picturesque old town, 435;
very numerous malt-kilns, 436;
street lamps, 437;
condition of streets, 438;
water-supply, 439;
coals first imported, 439.
—— Church of St. Giles, 431;
seats apportioned, 432;
lighting, 433;
bells, 435.
—— Cathedral built, 427;
burnt, 428;
rebuilt but lead stripped by order of Privy Council, 428.
Election, bitterly contested, 163.
Empress Eugenie and Louis Napoleon, 154.
—— Haruku, 240, 335.
“Enemy of the Human Race,” by Sir Andrew Clark, 463.
FAUTONG, wadded quilt, 315.
Feudal sports revived, 337.
Figure 9 minus a tail!, 383.
Fiji, “At home in,” 216.
—— in 1903, 225.
Findhorn Bay, 395, 401.
—— river, 53.
First Book, 204.
“Fish,” 37, 39.
—— Festival in Japan, 300.
Five o’clock tea an innovation, 115.
Flower festivals in Japan, 276–286.
Flowers, favourite, 136, 156.
—— Camelia trees in Japan, 243.
—— useful selection and packing, 113.
—— wild, 88, 105, 113, 312.
Folklore anent foxes, 290.
Footprint held sacred, 212.
Forres and Elgin, 382.
Fort Augustus, 175.
Fortune-telling, 15.
Forty-seven Rônins, 277.
Fox-god, his shrines, 288.
—— demoniacal possession by, 290.
Fujiyama, 109;
ascent of, 307–330;
view from summit, 318.
Funeral, a double, 164.
—— pall, 76.
GALLOWS HILL, 7, 87.
Garratt, the Rev. Mr., 109.
Geologists at Altyre, 38.
George Gordon, prentice to Robt. Blaikwood, 80.
Gibraltar, 203.
Gipsies, 63, 64.
Glass-works, 82, 153.
Glenelg, Lord, 32, 160.
Glenlee, Lord, 30.
Goodenough, Commodore, 218.
“Goodwill and Blessing,” 400.
Gordon-Cumming, Major Frederick, Note, 194.
—— John, William, and Frank, 42.
—— Henry, 32, 33, 196.
—— Jane, Lady, 107, 196.
—— double surname, Gordon of Gordonstoun, Cumming of Altyre, 26, Note.
—— clan tartans, badges, and mottoes, 14.
GORDONSTOUN, 27, 56, 72.
—— charter-room, 77.
—— lairds of, 85–100.
—— library, 99, note.
—— great picture by Gavin Hamilton, 75.
—— Sir William Gordon’s will, 100.
Gordon Castle, ancient name, 72, 102.
Grant, Field-Marshal Sir Patrick, 161.
—— General Ulysses, 333, 334, 342–346.
Grant, George, 125, 140.
—— of Glen Morriston, 189.
—— Lodge, 162, 159 _note_.
GRANT OF GRANT, Lady Ann and Lady Penuel rouse the clan, 160.
—— —— Earls of Findlater and Seafield, 27, 28.
Grantown on Spey, 159.
Granville, Earl, 16, 18.
_Great Eastern_, s.s., 152.
Gregory, Mrs., 211.
Grey, Sir George, New Zealand, 221.
Gull’s Castle, 65.
Gunning, the three beauties, 20.
HAIR, offerings of, 291, 467;
court hairdressing in Japan, 241.
Hakoni Lake, 311.
Hamilton Gordon, the Hon. Lady, 216.
Handsome Hays, 124.
Hanlin Library burnt, 365.
Hara kiri, 178.
Hardwar on the Ganges, 201.
Harehope, 106, 140, 154.
Harford Battersby of Keswick, 130.
Havelock, Sir Arthur, 222.
Hawaiian Islands, 347.
Hell’s Hole, 63;
seven hells of Buddhism, 331.
Helston in Cornwall, 25.
Hill Murray, the Rev. William, 353;
inventions, 355, 359;
blindness, 368.
Himalayas, 200.
_Hindoo_, s.s., 207;
foundering of, 208.
Historic Festival, Japan, 336.
Hong Kong, 243.
Hooker, Sir Joseph, 350.
Hopeman, 57.
—— “Holy Well” of Brae-mou or Burn-mouth, 70, 416.
Hospitable days, 130.
Hunt, Alfred, R.A., 195.
IDOLS, how punished and rewarded, 303–306.
—— their intestines, 304.
Images under repair, 302.
IMMORTALITY, BY NATURE, NOT TAUGHT IN THE BIBLE, Archbishop Whately,
Martin Luther, Bishop Gore, W. E. Gladstone, 449, 450.
Impenitence, 110.
Imperial College of Engineering, 232.
India, Life in, 198.
Indian Mutiny, 155.
Inkerman, Battle of, 134.
Intercessory Prayer, 454.
Inventor of the numeral-type for China, 353–370.
Inveraray, 214.
INVERNESS Gathering, 131–151;
cathedral, 158.
Islay, Campbell of, 16, 18.
Ivy-leaves, their motto, 14.
JAPAN and China, 231–346;
cremation and earth-burial, 244–252.
_Jessica’s First Prayer_, 186 _note_.
Jin-riki-ya, 236.
Jupp, the Rev. Charles, 168.
KANDY in Ceylon, 211.
Kinsfolk, numerous, 5.
Kite-flying in Japan, 302.
Kobu-dai-Gakko, 232.
Kwan-non, Goddess of Mercy, 275–6, 296.
LADY’S Cruise on a French Man-of-War, 227.
Langford Brooke of the Mere, 16.
Langham, The Rev. Fred., 219, 222.
Larks in Moray, fewer, 393.
Le Hunte, Sir George Ruthven, 221.
Lennox, Lady Arthur, 16.
—— Lady Walter Gordon, 193.
Le Seignelay, 227.
Letters, old, 3, 40–43.
“Letters of horning,” 83, 84.
Liddill, The Honble. Misses, 154.
Liddon, Canon, 205.
Lindisfarne, 140.
—— Archdeacon of, 141–148.
Longfellow, 348.
Lord Lovat’s cold bath, 79.
—— Scouts, 78.
“Lords of Regality,” 405.
Lotus blossom festival, 282.
—— emblem of Buddha, 253.
Lucifer matches, a recent blessing, 433.
Lyndhurst in 1854, 129.
MACDOWAL GRANT of Arndilly, 167.
M‘Gregor, Sir William, 221.
Macleod, Dr. Norman, 107.
Madame de Staël, 103.
Magazine Articles, 477–480.
Malta, 197, 202.
Manchuria, first copy of the Bible, 361.
—— 25,000 staunch Christians, 362.
Mandarin dialects in China, 361.
Maple, scarlet foliage, 286.
Mar and Kellie, Earl of, 31.
Marianne North, Miss, 350.
Martyrs, the noble army of, 366.
Medicines, quaint, 96, 290 _note_, 310, 468–477.
Medwyn, Lord (Forbes of), 30.
Menzies of Menzies, Sir Robert, 28, 192.
MICHAEL KIRK, 44 _note_, 92, 137, 182, 188.
Middleton, Lord, 205.
—— Lady, 455.
Mikado, the, 234, 239, 335.
Minton, the Rev. Samuel, 205 _note_.
Mission to the Blind in China, 352.
_Montana_, s.s., 209.
Monto, or Shin-shiû, reformed Buddhism, 292–295.
Montebello, Duc de, 22.
Monument over 5000 pairs of Korean ears, 276.
Moray Floods, 49, 421.
—— fertility, 385.
—— province of, 381.
Morrison, Lady Mary, 19.
Moy, The Moy Aunts, 31.
—— my first journey, 34.
Murray, The Rev. Will. Hill, 353;
inventions, 355–359;
blindness, 368.
NAVVIES on Speyside, 167.
Noel Paton (Sir), 188.
“Nô,” or Mythological Plays, 271.
North, Miss Marianne, 350.
Northern Meeting, 131, 151.
Northumberland, 102, 105, 140.
—— Dukes of, 141, 144.
‘Not so bad as that,’ 437.
Notes of a Naturalist, 175 (Roualeyn).
Numeral-type for China, 353.
Nurses, my, 48.
OAK FORESTS (Burghead), 415.
Ochtertyre, “God’s-acre,” 193, 376.
Ogilvie, Grant of Grant, 193.
Old Nan, 48.
Old Red Sandstone fossils, 38–39.
Oliver Wendell Holmes, 348.
Opera, crude criticism of, 121.
Ossulston, Lady Olivia, 154.
Otomitonga Pass, Japan, 311.
Oysters and Lobsters, no more, 410.
PARENTAGE, 5.
Parkes, Sir Harry, 333–334.
Penrose of Penrose, Grace Pearce, 25.
—— 209.
“Pen’s sylvania,” 158.
Perthshire, kind neighbours, 192, 193.
Percy, Earl, 144.
Pibroch, the last, 187.
Pigeons, superstitions concerning, 97.
“Pigs” of jam, school stores, 115.
Pilgrims in Japan, 309.
Pillows in Japan, etc., 292.
Pit and gallows, 87.
Pitgaveny, 414, 419.
Pittyvaich, 33, 196.
Planting Forests, 52.
Plymouth, 207.
Poetic heroes in Japan, 276.
Pollanarua, 211.
Portfolios, a wearisome possession, 203, 213, 351.
—— of China, 352.
Portland, Dukes of, 92.
Posting, 40, 103.
Prayer, a remarkable answer to, 365.
—— Wheels, 253–266.
Primitive Plays, 272.
Prisons, as reformatories in Japan, 239.
Punishment of obdurate idols, 303.
QUIRANG, 194.
RABBITS in Morayshire, 388;
Protection Act, 393.
Raigmore, Mackintosh of, 28, 131.
Railway, first line completed in the north, 408 _note_.
—— Highland, 441.
Randolph’s Leap, 10.
Relugas, 10, 130.
Rheumatic Fever, 149.
Rheumatism, cure for, 149 _note_.
Rivers of Morayshire, 10.
Robinson (Clifford), 33.
Rosaries, 267–269, 309, 464–467.
Rose-isle, 6.
Roualeyn, 5, 36, 37, 42, 116–119, 152;
his name, 41.
Round Square, 73.
_Royal Albert_, launch of, 126.
Russell, Lord William, 16.
—— Sir George, 16.
—— Mrs. William, 124.
Ruthven, Mary Lady, 22.
Ruyter, 116, 119.
SACRED BOOK WHEELS, 253–266.
Salisbury system of diet, 149 _note_.
Salt superstitions, 252.
Samuel Pepys, 89.
Samurai of Japan, 236, 238.
Sandhills, 55, 387, 395.
Sandwich Isles, 347.
“Says Tweed to Till,” 107.
School-days, 108.
Sculpture Cave, 59, 68.
Seafield, Earls of, 151 _note_, 159.
Seals, 395.
Sebastopol, 133.
_Sequoia Gigantea_, 230.
Sergison of Cuckfield Park, 191, 195.
Seventy-eighth Highlanders’ Welcome Home, 169.
Shawfield, Campbell of, 16, 18.
Shinto Worship, 270, 313.
Siege of the Legations, 367.
Simla, 200.
Sinclair, Jamie, Prince Worenzow’s Crimean gardener, 36.
Singapore, 217.
Sir Robert’s Stable, 66, 93.
Skipness, Campbells of, 24, 157.
Skye, Isle of, 194.
Slaginnan, Legend of, 9.
Sligachan in Skye, 194.
Smugglers, 67.
Social drinking customs, 461.
“Spate” on the Findhorn, 39.
Spey river, 159, 384.
Spiritualism, at Boston, 349.
Sporting trophies dispersed, 174 _note_.
Sportsman’s paradise, 407.
Sportsmen, true, 42, 117, 173.
Spurgeon, 152.
Spynie, Loch of, 87, 384, 403.
—— Lord, title created, 424;
killed, 425.
—— Palace of, 384, 406, 413, 427.
Squirrel foes, 389–392.
Stanmore, Lord, 216.
Star-grass, 413.
Starlings in Moray, 393.
—— in Banff, 393.
Straw shoes, 329.
Stuart, Randolph, 9.
—— Alexander, Wolf of Badenoch, 9, 379.
St. Columba, Legend of, 376.
St. Margaret’s College, Crieff, _now_ College House, 373.
St. Quintin, Geoffrey, 193.
Sutherland, Earls of, 85, 87.
—— Duchess of, 124.
Sutledge river, 201.
Sutors of Cromarty, 60.
Swans, wild, 384, 395, 407, 412.
Sydney, 218.
TANKERVILLE, Earl, 157.
Tarbat, Viscount, 81.
TEETOTALERS IN JUDEA, COMMENDED, 464.
“The Lion Hunter,” 42, 116.
The _Te Deum_, 366.
Theatres in Japan, 270–274.
—— at Trincomalee, 272.
Titaua, 228.
Tonga, Taheiti, and Samoa, 227, 230.
TOTAL ABSTINENCE made difficult, 461.
—— commended by wise physicians, 462, 463.
—— commended in the Bible, 464.
Travel, wearisome, 13, 46, 86, 103, 170.
Trespass, 95.
Triangular Shadow of Adam’s Peak, 212.
—— of Fujiyama, 317.
Tulli Duvie (Relugas), 10 _note_.
Ugadale, Macneal of, 24.
Uxbridge, Countess of, 16, 102.
VANISHED WATERS, 383, 403.
Varna Bay, 133.
Volcanic activity in Japan, 319–326.
Von Hügel, Baron Anatole, 227.
Voyages, my first, 111, 123.
WAR-CRY of the Grants, 159.
Warkworth, Lord, coming of age, 144.
Wasp’s nests, 46.
WEDDINGS, my sisters: Seymour, 192;
Eleanora, 141;
Ida, 134;
Emilia, 191;
my brother William, 193.
Wemyss, Earl of, 21.
Wheels, sacred symbols, 260.
—— for images, 265.
White terraces, New Zealand, 221.
—— wild cattle, 157.
Wig, cost of a, 386 _note_.
“Wild men and wild beasts,” 155.
Willoughby, 205 _note_.
—— The Hon. Mrs., 454.
Winchester College, founder’s kin, 14.
Window-tax, 73, 99.
Winthrop, Mrs., 348.
Winton Castle, 22.
Wishaw, 157.
Wistaria blossom, 281.
Witch-burning, 91.
Wizard, Sir Robert, 89–92.
Woodhorne Church, 148, 156, 171.
Wood-pigeons in Moray, 392.
Wolf of Badenoch, Alexander Stuart, 9, 379.
Wollaton Hall, 206 _note_.
Worcester, climb the beacon, 150.
Worship by machinery, 253–269, and 464–467.
YEDDO, 235.
ZURICK, marriage at, 15.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.
-----
Footnote 1:
See Notes A and D in Appendix.
Footnote 2:
Sir Thomas Dick Lauder owned Relugas (formerly called Tulli Duvie) by
right of his marriage with its heiress, Miss Cumming.
Footnote 3:
Truly, it is flesh!
Footnote 4:
In the very popular _Memoirs of a Highland Lady_ (Miss Grant of
Rothiemurchus), there are on pp. 284–5 and 387 some statements and
misstatements, which should be read by the light of pp. 163–4—namely
the author’s own reference to Sir William’s fleeting attraction to
herself in his early days.
No shadow ever marred the perfect love and happiness of this noble
couple. The wonderfully gifted and beautiful woman was justly idolised
by her husband and very large family, as well as by a wide outer
circle, rich and poor.
Footnote 5:
In the magnificent Church of the old Knights of St. John in Malta,
there is a beautiful monument to his memory.
Footnote 6:
So many misstatements have been unscrupulously published concerning
these beauties, that I may be forgiven for quoting a few paragraphs
from an excellent article on “THE BEAUTIFUL MISSES GUNNING,” which
appeared in the _Cornhill Magazine_ for 1867.
“The Gunnings were a branch of an old English family, which had
settled in Ireland in the reign of James I., their estate being Castle
Coote, in Roscommon.
“In 1731, Mr. Gunning married the Honourable Bridget Bourke, daughter
of Lord Mayo—‘a lady of most elegant figure.’ In the two following
years were born their daughters Maria and Elizabeth. At this time they
were living at Hemingford Gray, in Huntingdonshire, but on the death
of Mr. Gunning’s father, the family was transplanted to the wilds of
Connaught, where two other beautiful daughters and a son were born.
One of these daughters died as a child. Kitty married Mr. Travers in
Ireland. The son distinguished himself in the American war, and became
a General and K.C.B.
“In 1748, the family removed to Dublin, and (at the ages of fifteen
and sixteen) the beauties appeared at the Vice-Regal Court, Lord
Harrington being Lord Lieutenant.
“In 1750, they removed to London, and were presented at Court.
Thenceforward they carried society by storm. Horace Walpole declared
of ‘those goddesses’ that ‘they make more noise than any of their
predecessors since the days of Helen of Troy.’ They could not walk in
the parks on account of the crowds that surrounded them in sheer
admiration. When travelling through the country, crowds lined the
roads to gaze at them, and hundreds of people stayed up all night
round the inns where they halted, on the chance of getting a peep at
them in the morning. Imagine a shoemaker realising three guineas in
one day by the exhibition, at a penny a head, of one of their shoes!
“In February 1752, Elizabeth married the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon.
When she next appeared at Court, the excitement was so great that the
highest ladies in the land climbed on chairs and tables to look at
her. Her marriage with this proud but dissipated duke was not very
happy. He died in 1758.
“At five-and-twenty she was handsomer than ever. The Duke of
Bridgewater was among her suitors, and it was after her refusal that
he devoted himself to the making of the Bridgewater Canal and other
useful public works.
“In March 1759, she married Lord John Campbell, afterwards Duke of
Argyll. After her second marriage she almost entirely disappeared from
the fashionable world.
“In 1760, she was created Baroness Hamilton of Hambeldon, in
Leicestershire. She was then in attendance upon Queen Charlotte. She
died in 1790, aged fifty-seven.”
Footnote 7:
My happy memories of Machrihanish Bay were recorded in my first book,
_In the Hebrides_, published by Chatto and Windus.
Footnote 8:
Quoted in the aforesaid book, page 299.
Footnote 9:
The double surname resulting from the union of these two estates was
assumed only by my grandfather, and his son Sir William, consequently
it belongs exclusively to my father’s direct descendants.
The only survivors of the last generation who bear it are myself and
my brother Colonel William Gordon-Cumming, now living at Forres House.
Of my other brothers, only three married, namely, Sir Alexander,
Henry, and Frank; their only two daughters married respectively Lord
Middleton and the Honourable Claude Portman. They, however, left nine
sons, who are the fathers of my four little grand-nephews, and of ten
little grand-nieces, four in Scotland, five in New Zealand, and one in
Texas. These are the only members of the family who in 1904 own our
name.
I mention this because we are so frequently asked, “What relation to
you is So-and-so Gordon Cumming?” mentioning one of the many bearers
of the name, unknown to us.
This seems to have arisen from the fact, that when my brother Roualeyn
returned from his wonderful South African hunting expeditions, many
members of Clan Cumming christened a son Gordon in his honour.
When these grew up, and the use of double names without any reference
to property became the fashion, the families of these “namesakes”
assumed the father’s Christian name as a surname.
Imitation is said to be the truest flattery, but it has its
inconveniences, and in the case of names is liable to produce
confusion.
Footnote 10:
See Appendix, Note H.
Footnote 11:
I do not know whether to class as affectation, or sheer vulgarity, a
very offensive innovation which I have heard in some Scottish
churches, whose choirs have been carefully taught to pronounce
Jerusalem as Jerry-you-salem!
Footnote 12:
These quarries have long since been closed.
Footnote 13:
_Five Years of a Hunter’s Life in South Africa._ By R. Gordon-Cumming.
Published by John Murray.
Footnote 14:
_Wild Men and Wild Beasts._ By Colonel W. G. Gordon-Cumming. Published
by David Douglas.
Footnote 15:
The window of the room in which fifteen of my father’s children were
born, and from which we saw first my mother, then my father, pass
away. My sister Alice was born in London.
Footnote 16:
Her eldest son, Penrose, was at that time in Canada with his regiment,
the 71st Highlanders. He wrote from Montreal, 27th May 1842: “I feel
as if crushed to the earth. She was too young and beautiful, and too
necessary to her family to be taken from them.... Oh may we, her
children, profit by every advice and the example she showed us
daily.... There never was a mother who loved her children more than
she, or who thought of the absent ones with such affection, as her own
letters show.”
Footnote 17:
St. Michael’s Chapel was erected in 1705 on the site of the ancient
vicarage kirk of Ogston. The present small chapel, with a fine Gothic
window at each end, was built simply as a mortuary chapel for the
family of Gordonstoun.
Footnote 18:
See Note B in Appendix.
Footnote 19:
See Note C in Appendix.
Footnote 20:
“The lands of Ettles and fyshing, called the Coissey,” were granted to
Thomas Innes of Pethrick by Patrick, Bishop of Moray, in a charter
dated at Elgin and Drainie, the 8th and 18th May 1561, and signed by
the bishop and twelve of the canons of Elgin cathedral, their seals
being also appended. In 1638 these lands and fishings were sold to Sir
Robert Gordon by the grandson of the said Thomas Innes.
Footnote 21:
Fisher’s basket.
Footnote 22:
Ancestor of the present Duke of Fife.
Footnote 23:
Forbears, _i.e._ ancestors.
Footnote 24:
Easter Day.
Footnote 25:
Curia vitæ et membrorum furca et fossa.
Footnote 26:
The library, which numbered about three thousand volumes, was sold in
Edinburgh in the year 1801 for a small sum, but some years later the
vendor—Mr. Constable—bought it back for £1000 and a pipe of port wine.
It was finally dispersed in 1814 by J. G. Cockburn, when it realised
£1530. But from the catalogue of that sale it is obvious that books of
most curious interest had all been withdrawn.
Footnote 27:
Market.
Footnote 28:
See Appendix, Note E.
Footnote 29:
Kirn, a few, a handful. Perthshire and Morayshire.
Footnote 30:
I believe that many more owners of gardens would of their abundance
send flowers to friends and hospitals in cities, were it not from the
imaginary necessity of providing boxes. To such may I give some simple
suggestions? Carefully select flowers scarcely half-blown. Remove all
superfluous green from their stalks. _Tie them in bunches with a long
strip of wet newspaper about three inches wide, tied round the ends,
that they may drink on the journey. Leave them all in water for at
least an hour before packing._
Spread on the floor a sheet of brown paper, and on that a stout
newspaper. Then sprays of green things to protect the flowers and
gladden the recipient. If you have long ferns, and iris buds, a stick
of the same length is good protection. Then lay in your bunches of
flowers and roll all up securely in the newspapers, and then in the
brown paper, when your parcel will resemble a well-packed salmon, and
will travel by parcel-post for a very moderate sum.
If you leave this to your gardener to do, he will probably supply as
green useless prunings of Portugal and common laurels and unlovable
mahonia, sadly tantalising to the recipient.
Here is a list of desirable out-of-door green things that will live.
Sprays of beech-tree not too young; small trails of ivy. Most ferns,
especially _Felix-mas_, provided old fronds are selected, free from
seed; but not the lovely _Lastrea Dilatata_ or _Lastrea Felix Femina_,
which invariably die. Sprigs of _Rosa Rugosa_, boxwood, Solomon’s
seal, carrot-leaves, periwinkle, a few bits of glossy rhododendron,
all varieties of _Aber-vitæ_, sprays of _Diodera_. Most precious of
all are bits of _Retinospora Plumosa_ and _Thuyopsis Dolobrata_, which
will live for months.
For home use, _where water is at once available_, I would add sprays
of wild raspberry, and leaves of wild cow-parsley, strawberry and
potentilla leaves, bishop’s weed, leaves of large lupins, of
columbine, of blue delphinium, of _Dialitra Spectabilis_, of
pyrethrium; and daintiest of all is the fumitory (_Fumaria
officinalis_), which gardeners ruthlessly hoe up as a worthless weed,
unless specially bidden to spare some for pet vases.
Perhaps many friends who have no gardens could, if they realised the
above simple method of packing, send parcels of real Scotch heather
(ling, NOT purple bell heather, which dies at once). Also yellow
cornflowers, and Scottish bluebells: the latter carry very well, and
all the buds will bloom. All they crave is a minute’s attention to
their morning “toilette,” just to nip off the dead bells. But in
remote districts, mercy to the walking postman must limit his parcels.
Footnote 31:
Appendix, Note F.
Footnote 32:
In Parker Gillmore’s letters on “The Game of South Africa” I find this
passage:—“In many parts of this remote portion of Africa, I have come
across natives who knew well the mighty Nimrod, Gordon-Cumming—some
even that have hunted with him—and one and all agreed that he was the
bravest and most daring white man they ever knew. To them I have
recounted the principal episodes which he narrates in his work, and
which have been condemned by many of his countrymen as utterly
improbable, nay, impossible, but one and all, without a single
dissenting voice, attested to their truth.
“Sicomey, the father of Khama, now King of Bamangwato, told me of
deeds performed by Gordon-Cumming, which, if possible, outrivalled
those he has recounted in his work, and I have often thought that
these were withheld from the British public for the reason that he had
not authentic witnesses to produce who could endorse his statements.”
Footnote 33:
Shoes.
Footnote 34:
“Shrieking in that style.”
Footnote 35:
For the benefit of possible sufferers, I may mention that if I ever do
have a suggestion of rheumatism, I at once attribute it to unsuspected
indigestion, and for a short while adopt Dr. Salisbury’s system of
diet, which consists in refraining from all foods most liable to
fermentation, _i.e._ all vegetables, milk, sugar, fish, alcohol in any
form, and limiting the “menu” to three good meals daily of _very
finely minced_ and _well-cooked beef_, with no accompaniment except
some crisp toast, and if necessary a little strong meat-soup or black
coffee.
But the less fluid with meals the better, as it weakens the gastric
juices, and fluid is supplied by a good drink of hot water four times
a day, _i.e._ on first awakening, in the middle of the forenoon and
afternoon, and the last thing at night, always about an hour and a
half before or after eating. This supplies a bath for the internal
machinery, and acts on the same principle as washing the plate you
have used at one meal before it is required for the next meal.
_N. B._—Always ask for a small jug of boiling water, a bottle of cold
water, and a cup, that you may prepare your drink to suit your own
taste, otherwise you are apt to get a tumbler of scalding water all
ready poured out. By mixing for yourself and sipping slowly you can
probably manage to swallow a double allowance, and soon learn to enjoy
it. Some people think that a pinch of salt makes it more palatable. I
may mention that I know of hundreds of people once martyrs to the many
phases of indigestion, dyspepsia, and their _effects_ (called by many
names, but all due to the same _cause_), who attribute their
restoration to health to this simple course of dieting, as taught in
this country by the late Mrs. Elma Stuart (daughter of a Cumming of
Logie).
Footnote 36:
The principal home of the Earls of Seafield.
Footnote 37:
Published by David Douglas, Edinburgh.
Footnote 38:
This historic house has recently been purchased by Colonel Cooper, who
on August 19, 1903, presented it, with forty-five acres of land,
henceforth to be known as Cooper Park, to the city of Elgin. The
boundary-wall, which separated the grounds from the ruins of the
beautiful cathedral, has been removed, and the house itself adapted to
the purposes of a public library, as also for the exhibition of a loan
collection of pictures, curios, etc.
Footnote 39:
Amongst other old Highland customs which Lady Ann kept up at Castle
Grant was dining in the great hall with “the salt” in the middle of
the long table, and the diners placed above or below the salt
according to their social standing.
Footnote 40:
Until the Reform Bill was passed, the burghs of Banff, Cullen, Elgin,
Inverury and Kintore, were represented by one Member of Parliament,
the town council of each burgh selecting a delegate to represent the
community at the election, which took place at each town in rotation.
Footnote 41:
Lady Jane afterwards married General Sir Edward Forestier-Walker.
Footnote 42:
Hugh Willoughby Jermyn was subsequently Bishop of Colombo, in Ceylon,
where for two delightful years his house was my headquarters, till
total breakdown of health compelled his return to Britain, where in
1876 he was appointed to succeed our cousin, Alexander Forbes, as
Bishop of Brechin. In 1886, on the death of Bishop Eden at Inverness,
he was unanimously elected Primus of the Scottish Episcopal Church. He
entered into rest, September 17th, 1903, aged eighty-three.
His life for the last fifty years had been one long struggle of a
brave, determined spirit for victory over a very frail body, which
sorely hampered him.
Doubtless that ever brave, bright nature was in some mysterious manner
being “made perfect through suffering,” but there we touch on one of
the mysteries for the solution of which we must be content to wait.
Footnote 43:
Strange to say, ere one brief year had elapsed, his brother Roualeyn’s
noble hunting-trophies were conveyed to London, there to be likewise
sold by auction at a strangely ill-attended sale. Thus were scattered
to the winds the treasures of two of the most successful hunters of
dangerous wild beasts. Almost all Roualeyn’s trophies were purchased
by Barnum, and, sad to say, were burnt in his great fire.
Footnote 44:
The grim grey fort has now been swept away, and on its site stands the
large Roman Catholic Monastery and Church of St. Benedict.
Footnote 45:
Meadow pipit (_Anthus pratensis_).
Footnote 46:
See Appendix, Note G.
Footnote 47:
A few weeks later Sandy was enrolled as a police-constable in
Liverpool, where for a brief period he worked well, then caught a
fever and died.
Footnote 48:
He was generally acknowledged to be the most graceful reel-dancer, and
to throw the lightest fly in salmon fishing, of any man in Scotland.
Footnote 49:
Lady Middleton.
Footnote 50:
I have just learnt that the sale of this pathetic little story by
Hesba Stretton has reached the amazing figure of 1,747,000 copies.
Footnote 51:
He served in the 71st Highlanders, and the 4th Light Dragoons, and
took a prominent part in the volunteer movement from its beginning.
Footnote 52:
Bishop of Moray and Ross. For many years Primus of the Episcopal
Church in Scotland.
Footnote 53:
Major Frederick Gordon-Cumming of the Cheshire Regiment was shot dead
while on convoy-duty against the Chins, a hill-tribe in Burmah, 23rd
March 1890. Peace had actually been signed, and he was marching back
to Fort White, when he was mortally wounded by a hill-man lying
concealed among the rocks.
Footnote 54:
The Rev. S. Minton was one of the first who had courage to declare his
own belief in CONDITIONAL IMMORTALITY. See Appendix, Note F.
Footnote 55:
Though I cannot give accurate details of Willoughby history, it is
interesting to me, now that my headquarters are near some of the
Willoughby D’Eresby estates (Drummond Castle and Glen Artney
deer-forest), to know that at some period this great family divided
itself and its numerous estates, one branch being now represented by
the Earl of Ancaster, the other by Lord Middleton.
Although by far the most interesting Middleton property is the
magnificent and quite unique old Wollaton Hall, near Nottingham, the
family have lived chiefly at Birdsall as being the most convenient
hunting-centre, the expensive honour of being M.F.H. being virtually
hereditary. Lord Middleton’s hounds, kennels, hunters, stud-farm, and
home-farm are all objects of keen interest in the hunting and
agricultural world, the latter being especially interested in his
splendid shire horses.
Footnote 56:
Afterwards Sir William Gregory.
Footnote 57:
In July 1904 he was appointed Governor and Commander-in-Chief of
Newfoundland.
Footnote 58:
See _In the Himalayas_, C. F. Gordon-Cumming (published by Chatto and
Windus).
Footnote 59:
See _In the Hebrides_, C. F. Gordon-Cumming (published by Chatto and
Windus).
Footnote 60:
Ezekiel i. 16, 20, 21; x. 2, 10, 13, 16, 17, 19; xi. 22.
Footnote 61:
See Appendix, Note I.
Footnote 62:
Any one interested in Japanese rosaries can see some very remarkable
specimens in the collection of Japanese treasures presented to the
British Museum by Sir Augustus Wollaston Franks, K.C.B.
Footnote 63:
_Wistaria sinensis._
Footnote 64:
Very remarkable is the place assigned to the fox in the medicine
folklore both of Britain and Japan. The Early English prescription for
disease of the joints was to take _a living fox_ and seethe him till
the bones alone be left, and then bathe repeatedly in this foxy
essence. “Wonderfully it healeth!” says the old chronicler. The fox’s
liver possessed special curative powers, and indeed each portion of
the fox—his gall, the fat of his loin, his lung sodden, etc.—each had
special virtues, while those who suffered from foot-addle, _i.e._
gout, were recommended to wear shoes lined with vixen hide.
Footnote 65:
See _Wanderings in China_, by C. F. Gordon-Cumming, chapter xii.
Footnote 66:
See Appendix, Note J.
Footnote 67:
See Appendix K.
Footnote 68:
The Prince Imperial was born in 1879.
Footnote 69:
My nephew, A. Gordon-Cumming.
Footnote 70:
Published by Blackwood.
Footnote 71:
See Appendix, Note L.
Footnote 72:
Her life-story has been sketched by her sister in _Recollections of a
Happy Life_.
Footnote 73:
I cannot refrain from quoting a comment by Dr. Alexander, Archbishop
of Armagh, on Agnosticism: “Agnostic, ah! a very high-sounding word.
It’s Greek, you know. It is not quite so fine when you render it in
Latin—Ignoramus!”
Footnote 74:
From _Corn and Poppies_, by Cosmo Monkhouse, published by Elkin
Matthews.
Footnote 75:
The Champion Medal and Breeder’s Medal for the best beast in the
Smithfield Show, 1881, were awarded to Sir W. G. Gordon-Cumming, of
Altyre and Gordonstoun, who for many successive years carried off
first prizes, his factor, Mr. Robert Walker, being one of the most
successful cattle-breeders in Britain.
Footnote 76:
“Loons”—lads.
Footnote 77:
We hear of forty guineas being paid for a handsome periwig, which,
moreover, entailed continual care and expense to keep it in curl and
beauty.
Footnote 78:
This singular payment of a portion of an animal seems to have been
common. I find that the rental of the Bishop’s Mills (or as they are
described “The Bischopis Mylne,” near Elgin Cathedral), in A.D. 1565,
included, amongst other items, three fowls, four dozen of capons,
three sheep, three lambs, one pig, and _three quarters of a mart_ (or
bullock)!
Footnote 79:
Rhind’s _Sketches of Moray_, 1839.
Footnote 80:
The inhabitants of Lossiemouth tell with pride that their railway
across the lake to Elgin was _the first line completed in the north_!
It was opened for traffic in 1852. The coast-line of rail from London
to Inverness, _viâ_ Aberdeen, was opened in 1858. The Highland line
_viâ_ Perth was opened in 1863.
Footnote 81:
Lobster-chests.
Footnote 82:
Probably of Hugh de Moravia, Lord of Duffus.
Footnote 83:
_Annals of Elgin._ By Robert Young.
Footnote 84:
While thus referring to one unintentional source of evil, I would
venture to plead against another, by which grave harm is too often
done, namely, the thoughtless repeating of rather irreverent stories
connected with favourite hymns and verses of Scripture. A slight touch
of wit, or mere absurdity, causes such to stick to the memory of the
hearer, never to be eradicated, destroying the sanctity of what has
hitherto been a purely sacred association. I grieve to say that too
often the clergy are themselves the sowers of these evil tares.
Footnote 85:
The Tulasi (or basil) is deemed very sacred, because Sita, the wife of
Rama, once assumed the form of this humble shrub.
Footnote 86:
_Elæocarpus Ganitrus._
Footnote 87:
_Monodon monoceros._
Footnote 88:
In my _Wanderings in China_, chapter viii., amongst other very
“strange medicines,” I have described how the hot blood of a newly
decapitated criminal is secured as a valuable cure for a disease
supposed to be consumption.
Footnote 89:
See the _Collection of Useful Remedies_, by John Moncrief of
Tippermalluch; a person of extraordinary skill and knowledge in the
Art of Physick. Printed in the Cowgate of Edinburgh in A.D. 1712.
Footnote 90:
See _In the Hebrides_. C. F. Gordon-Cumming. London: Chatto and
Windus.
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