NOTES FROM THE SCOTTISH ISLES.

VI.—ENTEUING LOCI SLIGACIIAN : FAREWELL.

WE had left Portree harbour on a rather black-looking forenoon, with the intention of slipping down to Loch Sligachan, a distance of only some eight or nine miles, and of lying fora little time in the immediate neighbourhood of the wonderful Cuchullins. The little Tern had gone through many a peril since she first rounded the ter- rible Rhu,—her bottom and sides were thick with green and slimy weeds,—her decks were grimy as those of a coal-barge,—her sails were dirty and weather-worn,—and altogether, she looked some- what like a bird in trouble, with wet and ruffled feathers and ragged wings. She had carried her mainsail nearly all the journey in the open, and now, for the first and second time, we had lashed down the boom and put on the " trysail,"—just for the purpose of shifting comfortably down to Sligachan. Fortunate for ifs, as the event proved, that we did so !—for we left without a pilot, and were destined to be blown on somewhat sharply by the mighty Cuchullins. WE had left Portree harbour on a rather black-looking forenoon, with the intention of slipping down to Loch Sligachan, a distance of only some eight or nine miles, and of lying fora little time in the immediate neighbourhood of the wonderful Cuchullins. The little Tern had gone through many a peril since she first rounded the ter- rible Rhu,—her bottom and sides were thick with green and slimy weeds,—her decks were grimy as those of a coal-barge,—her sails were dirty and weather-worn,—and altogether, she looked some- what like a bird in trouble, with wet and ruffled feathers and ragged wings. She had carried her mainsail nearly all the journey in the open, and now, for the first and second time, we had lashed down the boom and put on the " trysail,"—just for the purpose of shifting comfortably down to Sligachan. Fortunate for ifs, as the event proved, that we did so !—for we left without a pilot, and were destined to be blown on somewhat sharply by the mighty Cuchullins.

The wind was ahead, and had fallen so much that the beating down was very slow work indeed ; so that we had full leisure to examine all the fine " glimpses " in the narrow sound,—the mighty cliffs of Skye piled up above us on the starboard side, the undulat- ing isle of Raasay to the left, the gigantic Storr astern, and Ben Glamair rising darkly over the starboard bow. Nothing could be wilder and more fantastic than some of the shapes assumed by the Skye cliffs, nothing could be finer than some of their shadowy tints ; contrasted with them, Dun-Can of Ramsay, on the top of which the oracular Doctor and Boswell danced a pas de deux, looked like a mere earthen sugar-loaf beaten flat at the top. But all under Dun-Can stretched a brown and rocky country, pastoral and peaceful enough in parts, and having even green slopes and bright heathery glades,—together with fine pieces of artificial woodland, through which glittered the waterfall-

" A silver pleasure in the heart of twilight!"

Strange looked the Storr behind us, rising solitary into the sky, with its pinnacles and towers lying underneath in the shadow of itself. Our eyes turned with most eagerness, however, towards Ben Glamair, now scarcely visible in a thick purple mist. Cloud after cloud was settling on his summit, sinking lower and lower to mantle him from forehead to feet,—and the long thread-like film of the falling rain was drawn down his darkness with faint, sick streaks of light ; yet the sea about us was quite quiet, and the wind was ominously still. Hamish Shaw, the pilot, cocked his eye up at the giant in true sailor style, but delivered it as his judgment that " the day would be a fine day,—tho' we micht maybe hae a shower ;" and 'Tarnish had reason on his side, for the giants of Skye sometimes look very threatening when they mean no harm, and very friendly when they are drawing a great breath into their rocky lungs preparatory to blowing your boat to the bottom of the sea. Still, it was with not quite comfortable feelings that we drew nearer and nearer to the mouth of Sligachan. The place bore an ugly name—there was danger above and danger under— rocks below and squalls above. Right across the mouth of Loch Sligachan stretches a dangerous shoal, leaving only a passage of a few yards, and to sail through this at all it is necessary to have the tide in your favour. Then, as you enter, you must look out for "Bo Sligachan,"—a monster lying in wait just under water to scrunch your planks behind his weedy jaws. Then, again, look out for squalls ! Down the almost perpendicular sides of Ben Glamair, down the beds of the torrents, inaudible till it has sprung shrieking upon you, comes the Wind. Talk about wind ! You know nothing whatever on that subject unless you have been in a boat among these mountains. Huge skiffs have been lifted out of sheltered nooks made expressly for their reception,—lifted up, twirled rapidly in the air like straws, and smashed to fragments in an instant. If a hen ventures to open her wings sometimes, up she goes in the air, whisks round and round for a moment, and comes down with the force of a bullet—dead. The mail gig, which runs at the foot of Ben Glamair, on a road well sheltered from the worst fury of the blast, has sometimes to stand to face the wind for minutes together, knowing that it would certainly be upset if the squalls caught it broadside. Not very long ago a great schooner was capsized and foundered at anchor by a sudden gust, just because she happened to have one or two empty herring barrels piled upon her deck. Next to Loch Scavaig for fury of sudden squalls comes Loch Sligachan. In the latter you have only the breath of Glamair, but at Scavaig you must prepare for the com- bined blasts of all the Cachullins—all the giants gathering together iu the mist, and manifesting a fury to which Polypheme's passion against Ulysses was a trifle.

But it was summer time, and we anticipated nothing terrific, otherwise we should certainly not have ventured yonder in so frail and tiny a thing as the Tern. We had already falsified all the dire predictions which, had greeted us on setting forth and followed U3 throughout our journey,—we had crossed and recrossed the Minch, penetrated into the wild fjords of the Long Island, beaten round the north-east coast of Skye in the open sea,—all in a poor little crank craft not seven tons' burden, seven feet beam, rigged for racing, and intended only for river sailing in very mild weather.

Our good fortune, instead of turning our brains, had made us more cautious than when we set forth. Many perils escaped had explained to us the real danger of our attempt. We had certainly no anticipation of meeting in the narrows the fate which we had escaped so often in the open sea.

What with the slight wind, and the weary beating down the Sound, we did not sight Sconser Lodge, which lies just at the mouth of Loch Sligachan, until the sunset. By this time the clouds had somewhat cleared away about Glamair, and glorious shafts of luminous silver were working wondrous chemistry among the dark mists. We put about close to Raasay House, a fine dwelling in the midst of well-cultivated land, and feasted our eyes with the fantastic forms and colours of the Skye cliffs to the westward, grouped together in the strange wild illumination of a cloudy sunset ; domes, pinnacles, spires, rising with dark outline against the west, and flitting from shade to light, from light to shade, as the mist cleared away or darkened against the sinking sun ; with vivid patches between of dark brown rocks and of green grass washed to glistening emerald by recent rain. It was a scene of strange beauty,—nature mimicking with unnatural perfection the mighty works of men, colouring all with the wildest colours of the imagination, and revealing beyond, at intervals, glimpses of other domes, pinnacles, and spires, flaming duskly in the sunset, and crumbling down, like the ruins of a burning city, one by one. What came into the mind just then was not Wordsworth's sonnet on a similar cloudy pageant, but those wonderful stanzas of a wonderful poem by the same great poet on the eclipse of the sun in 1820 :—

"Awe-stricken she beholds the array

That guards the Temple night and day ; Angels she sees, that might from heaven have flown, And virgin saints, who not in vain Have striven by purity to gain The beatific crown- " Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings, Each narrowing above each; the wings, The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips, The starry zone of sovereign height— All steeped in the portentous light ! All suffering dim eclipse !"

It is difficult to tell why these lines should have arisen in our mind at that moment ;—for no stronger reason, perhaps, that caused the figures themselves to rise before Wordsworth by the side of Lugano. He had once seen the Cathedral at Milan, and when the eclipse came, he could not help following it thither in imagination. These faint associations are the strangest things in life, and the sweetest things in song. Portentous light ! dim eclipse ! These were the only words truly applicable to the scene we were gazing upon at that moment ; and those few words were the chain of the association—the magical charm linking sense and soul—bringing Milan to Skye, filling the sunset picture with the wings, uplifted palms, and silent lips of angels and virgin saints,—

"All steeped in the portentous light! All suffering dim eclipse!"

It was just as we were contemplating this wonder, that the water blackened to windward, and we were laid over with the first squall from Glamair. What a screaming in the rigging ! what a rattling of dishes and buckets in the forecastle ! 1Vhat a clutch- ing at spars and ropes on deck ! It was gone in a moment, and the Tern dashed buoyantly forward. The wind had freshened suddenly, and we were bowling along at five or six miles an hour, carrying trysail, foresail, and the big jib. We were still a good two miles from Sconser Lodge, so that the squalls, when they reached us, had lost much of their force. Squall second was even softer than the first ; we laughed as it whizzed through the rigging, just putting the bulwarks under, and were still further encouraged by a sudden brightening of the Ben. Fools! that brightening should not have beguiled us. Hamish,

who was at the helm, had just made the remark that he thought " the nicht would be a good nicht," and we were about half a mile off the mouth of Loch Sligachan, when squall third, coming sheer down the sides of Glamair, smote us like a thunderbolt, and with a terrific shriek laid the Tern clean upon her broadside. It was

clatter of rubbish, and those on deck shivered and looked pale.

" Off wi' the foresail! " screamed Hanish ; and it was done in an 310\ ASTI C LIFE.

instant. For a moment it seemed as if the little craft would never [To Tin: EDITOR OF THE " SPECTATOR.1 persevered, even without a local pilot, and the tide being nearly My host on this occasion was a man of considerable note, the full, we passed over sunken dangers with comparative safety. At spiritual director of a large rural district in Normandy, and one the narrowest part of the passage we could see the bottom, and of those truly sincere and estimable Roman Catholic priests of actually grazed it with our keel. But the winds were the whom little is known iu England. At the time I speak of,—thirty worst. The anchorage was right at the foot of Glamair, years ago,—he was a venerable silver-haired curd, nearly eighty so that the nearer we drew the fiercer and more sudden years of age, but with all the vivacity of youth ; a man of courtly were the squalls. The people gathered on shore, evidently manners, united with the greatest simplicity and kindness. In expecting to see us get into trouble. To their astonishment, countenance he strongly resembled the portraits of Fenelon, and there however, we shook the little Tern through every blast, righted was a resemblance in character also, as regarded fervid piety and and saved her at every moment of peril, and finally dropped unbounded charity. At the time of the French Revolution of 1789 anchor safely before it was quite dark. How we should have fared he was private secretary to the Archbishop of Paris, and he steadily on a really stormy day it is not difficult to guess. This was an resisted all the porsanal efforts and flatteries of Talleyraud, who ordinary evening, somewhat windy, but what the men of Sligachan wished him to take the oath of allegiance to the Constitution, and called " good weather." So terrific, however, is the suction of the was consequently obliged to fly for his life. After many narrow hills beyond, and so sheer the descent of Glamair to the water, escapes he got safe to England, and, seeing farther than his that winds that are mild elsewhere become furious here. Keep us emigrant companions (who expected but a very brief exile), he no from Sligachan after October, when the south-wester begins to sooner landed than he set to work in earnest to learn English, and

come with its mighty rain-clouds over the sea ! established himself as a teacher of languages near Barnet. He was

While we are on the subject of squalls, we may complete our soon on friendly terms with the Protestant clergyman of the place, report against Ben Glamair by stating that on one occasion, during with Mr. Byng, the member, and with other neighbouring families, our atayin the loch, although we were only about two hundred yards and was universally esteemed and beloved: Among his friends from low-water mark, we could hold no communication with the was Mr. Salomons, who invited him to dinner, " if he would not shore for a night and a day, and were all that time watching object to cat with a Jew, who said a prayer and washed hands anxiously lest the Tern's heavy mast should founder her at anchor. before meat." The Abbe replied that he was always glad to wash " Half a gale "of wind was blowing ; and with many of the squalls, his hands, and that as to the prayer, he would say his own while the boat, though perfectly bare of canvass, lay over so much as to they recited theirs ; and so the Jew and the Catholic sat down ship water into the cockpit. The wind came straight off Glamair, cordially together : but though freely associating with Protestant or and though there was no "fetch" whatever, there was scarcely a Jew, the Abbe held firmly to his own faith. Gratitude for kind- dark spot between us and the shore—all was churned as white as ness received in England during ten years of exile induced him,

snow. after his return to France, to seek out the few English who came

The Cuchullin Hills are the Temple of Ossian, and the Temple into his neighbourhood, and thus I became acquainted with him. has two porches—Sligachan and Scavaig. We had now fairly Often had I heard his Hertfordshire friends speak of him with halted on the threshold of one,—lyiug on the verge of an enchanted warm regard, and when he sent to offer his services, on hearing world. Opposite our anchorage was the village of Sconser, —a that an English family had taken a chateau near St. Desk (where number of rude hovels scattered on the hillside, with many fine he had long been cure), great was his delight on finding amongst patches of green corn and potatoes, and bite of excellent pasture them one who knew his old friends, and we were soon on intimate for the cows. A smack was at anchor close to us, skiffs were terms. Liberal as he was, lie naturally desired that we should drawn up above high-water mark, and nets were drying every- embrace what he held to be the true faith, and he exerted himself where on the beach ; and we soon ascertained that the herring to show us all that was best and most interesting iu the Roman were "up the loch." Right above us, as we have said, rose Ben Catholic system. He introduced us to many clever priests and Glamair, towering to a desolate and barren cone, seamed every- charming nuns,—cloistered as well as hospital sisters,—for being

where with the beds of streams, and covered with the grey sand archdeacon of the diocese and director of all the convents, lie and loose rocks deposited in times of flood. At times this moun- could take us into the interiors, where few Protestants are tam has the true dark leaden colour of the Cuchullins, but at admitted. (1 may add that he was no great advocate for couven- others, notably when the sun is very bright and the air very clear, tual life ; its narrowness was displeasing to hitu,—though he it looks sufficiently common-place. Common-place is an adjective honoured those who had "a true vocation ;" and he once owned at no time applicable to Scuir-na-Gillean cr Blaaven ; these are to me that nothing was so irksome to him as hearing the maguificent in all weathers, no sunlight can rob them of their confessions of nuns, who had little to confess but petty jealousies.) dark beautiful outlines and lurid tints of the hyperethene. lie once took us to see the ordination of fifty priests in However, it is far from our present intention to attempt any Bayeux Cathedral,—a grand spectacle,—and I remember the picture of the Cuchullins and of Loch Cornisk ; they are too fervour with which he described that part of the ceremony

exquisite to be slighted briefly. Just now, we must pause at our where the candidates take the one step fu-ward which seals their

anchorage,—with one last word, however, for Sligachan Inn, fate for life. Many have drawn back at that decisive moment, beyond all question the cleanest, snuggest, cheapest little place "and those not the worst either," said may good old friend, who of the sort in all the Highlands of Scotland. The landlady is one deserves ever grateful remembrance from one who, though in his of those women who " diffuse warmth,"—a motherly woman, eyes a heretic, was treated by him as a daughter, and honoured by mingling the experience gained in great houses with the domestic his friendship. A few years later, lie dictated, on his death-bed, instincts which are born, not made. We have paid her several a letter to me which he signed with his own trembling hand, "Ton visits, and always found something fresh to praise. Pleasant ami pour la vie et pour l'eteruite."

homely inns are not so common in the Highlands that we can To return to the monk of La Trappe. As a special favour, two afford to pass this one over. Not the least of its merits is its unob- of our party were invited to meet him at dinner, but the illness of trusiveness,—its fitness to the spirit of the wondrous scene by my intended companion obliged me to go alone. I was quite at

which it is surrounded. home at the presbyiere (where my little nephew was hoardingi, Herewith end the quotations from our note-book ; it would be and although the position of one lady at table with twelve priests wrong to trespass on your space longer. If the appetite of any and a monk of La Trappe was somewhat a novel one, yet such