Chapter VIII: From Skye to Calcutta (2)

The implied disrespect to the poor babies reminds me of a speech made by the old grave-digger at Nairn, in a year of sad mortality among the little ones. A friend seeing him at work asked, “Weel, John, hae ye had a gude season?” “Hoot na!” was the answer; “just a heap of sma’ trash!” You perceive that being paid so much per foot for his work, his profits varied with the stature of all comers.

Happily for the survivors, the old customs of extravagant funeral feasts are now well-nigh among the things of the past. Such feasting, for instance, as has been recorded at the funeral of one of the Lords of the Isles in Iona, when nine hundred cows, each valued at three marks, were consumed! Or that of Sir William Hamilton, which cost 5,000_l._, equal to two years of his salary as Lord Justice Clerk! Or, again, that of the Mackintosh, in 1704, when cooks and confectioners were brought from Edinburgh—no easy matter in those days—and extravagant feasting was continued for a whole month, waiting the arrival of the chief mourner, who had to be sought and found in the south of England. Indeed one account says that the body lay in state at Dalcross Castle for upwards of two months, during which open house, in the widest acceptation of the term, was kept, claret flowing incessantly. When at length the funeral day arrived, the procession extended for four miles, the first man having reached the churchyard of Petty before the last had left the castle!

Such profusion marks the same strange law of hospitality which forbade a Highland chief to question his unbidden guest as to his business until the expiration of a year, should he choose to stop so long. Hence the Gaelic sentence which describes the house of a chief as “the point to which the road of every stranger leads.” Not that the chief had any monopoly of this unbounded liberality. The poorest of these islanders were so ready to entertain strangers and load them with the best they had to give, that in olden days we hear of unprincipled persons from the mainland frequenting the Hebrides for no other purpose than that of sponging on their neighbours; and when the first householder whom they honoured with a visit had been eaten out of house and home, he took them on to his next neighbour, where they remained and repeated the process.

Perhaps the quaintest illustration of a hospitable board literally groaning under the weight of good things heaped upon it, was a great dinner given to Argyle by M‘Eachin, in Cantyre, whereat every creature he could possibly lay hands on was roasted whole, and set on the table “standing on its stumps!” There were an ox, a goat, a sheep, a stag, a roe, hares, rabbits, and all manner of poultry, and many another good thing, cooked in such fashion as might well have given Soyer a dream of Bedlam!

There was one part of the coast which, to our great regret, we had not time to visit, namely, that of Talliskar, which is said to be very fine columnar basalt. We also omitted seeing the spar cave at Strathaird, which Sir Walter Scott declared to be one of the three finest caves in Scotland, the other two being Smowe, in Orkney, and Staffa. He records how, having with difficulty clambered up the smooth, polished ascent, over water-worn marble, he slid down again after the manner of schoolboys, greatly to the detriment of his pantaloons! Within the cave is a deep pool of limpid fresh water, and the roof is encrusted with stalactites, which, when seen by torchlight, glitter like fairy frost-work. Unfortunately the smoke of the torches, and the destructive habits of tourists are rapidly destroying all beauty.

At length the sad day came, when we were compelled to bid adieu to beautiful Skye—its mountains, and its kindly people. We took the coach to dreary Broadford, where I suppose most future visitors will be landed by steamers from Strome Ferry, the new railway terminus. Just imagine the snorting iron horses having found their way even to these wilds (solitudes no longer), and making those grand old summits echo back their hideous shriek and whistle. The poet’s nightmare of seeing a railway “bridge the Hebrides” has well-nigh been rendered a vulgar fact, and his wail over the great Saxon invasion keeps ringing in our ears—

“Land of Bens and Glens and Corries,
Headlong rivers, ocean floods!
Have we lived to see this outrage
On your haughty solitudes?

· · · · ·

Strange to them the train—but stranger
The mixed throng it bubbles forth,
Strand and Piccadilly emptied
On the much-enduring North!”

All of which is very fine theoretically; but practically it must be confessed that a luxurious railway _coupé_ has _some_ advantages over a crowded coach; and as to our brethren of the city, I only hope they may all carry away as sunny memories of Skye as have clung to me. To them above all others, the four-and-twenty hours which transport them from the heart of London to the farthest limits of these wild hills should be a concentrated essence of delight—and no British railway could possibly lie through scenes more beautiful, than does the new Skye line. The old folk will tell you that the railway is no new idea to them, for, just as the making of the Caledonian Canal had long been foretold by seers, who beheld ships with great white sails passing to and fro, where other men could see only broom and heather,—so, more than two hundred years ago, Coignoch Oig, the prophet of Brahan in Ross-shire (many of whose prophecies have already been strangely verified) foretold that a day was coming when every stream would be bridged, when a white house should stand on every hill, and balls of fire would pass rapidly up and down Strathpeffer. More especially, for the last thirty years have they expected the railway, for it was about that time, “just thirty years syne,” that the folk travelling by the coach, between Loch Carron and Strome Ferry, (by the old road, which ran very near where the railway now goes), were startled one dark winter night by seeing a great light coming towards them, and as it drew nearer they saw that it was a huge dark coach with fiery lamps—they could see no horses; only a great glare of flames and sparks, and it rushed past them at a place where there was no road, and vanished among the mountains. After this, the mysterious coach was seen at frequent intervals for two or three years—till at last the coachman could no longer stand the constant strain on his nerves, and gave up running at night.

This is the story that you may hear from any old “_cailliach_” as she sits in the gloaming, crooning her old songs by the light of the red peat fire, or spinning her endless yarns to the group of bare-legged and bare-armed lassies, whose bright eyes glitter in the ruddy light as they press around her, or cling closer one to another, as the interest of the story becomes more thrilling. Presently the lads will join them, for the day’s work is done, and “e’en brings a’ hame” to the pleasant fireside.

But we must return to the coach which we left toiling along the steep hilly road, only two years ago; and already we look back to these as to “the old coaching days!” Yet there are people still living who remember when the coaches first began to run regularly north of Aberdeen, and what a grand thing _that_ was thought. Nay, more; there are many gentlemen who can vividly recollect going from here to London in a sailing smack, as the simplest and least troublesome route. How often I have heard my father describe such voyages, and the annoyance of being becalmed for days together. Then came the coasting steamers; a grand improvement, and many a merry sail we have had in them between London and Moray. Now all these are things of the past. You breakfast one morning in sight of the great Skye hills, and the next finds you at Euston Square—a process so simple, that life becomes one incessant railway journey, for ever whirling to and fro!

On the present occasion, we were not oppressed by the encroachments of civilisation. Our route lay by Kyle Akin, or Kyle Hakin (the Straits of Haco), where we had to cross Loch Alsh by ferry. Happily the weather was calm and dry, else the crossing in a small open boat might have been unpleasant. The scramble of young natives to secure a fair share of our luggage and our coin was something startling to behold in Britain.

Close to Kyle Akin are the ruins of Castle Moil, an old square keep, whose solid and substantial walls seem to form part of the rock on which they stand, overhanging the water. It was built by the daughter of a Norwegian king (or some say, by a Scottish dame, known as Saucy Mary), who exacted a toll from all vessels passing through the Kyles; and kept a strong chain stretched from shore to shore as a toll-bar, the chain being fastened with iron rings to the rocks on either side.

We drove on _viâ_ Balmacarra and Loch Alsh till we reached Dornie Ferry, where, with one honourable exception (and he was an American), we found every man connected with the ferry hopelessly drunk, in honour of a cattle show. Some were surly; some were cheery; others helplessly imbecile, having attained the same pleasant stage as that worthy Londoner, who, returning home at an advanced hour of the morning “shlightly shober,” plumed himself on being particularly early, having passed the great tower of Westminster just as Big Ben was striking one, and what was more, “_it had struck one sheveral times_”!

Being thus forcibly detained, we consoled ourselves by sketching the old castle of Eilean Donan, which stands on an island in Loch Duich. It was built on the site of an old vitrified fort, by Alexander II., to overawe the Danes and Norwegians; and the first constable of the castle was one Kenneth Matheson, whose descendants were known as MacKennich, the sons of Kenneth. Hence sprang the Mackenzies of Seaforth. Since then the old castle has been twice consumed and twice rebuilded. In the last instance it was taken for Prince Charlie by a farmer who held that all stratagems are fair in love and war. So he feigned sore distress at the prospect of stormy weather, and induced the governor to lend him some hands to help in rapidly garnering the harvest. No cloud on the political sky, threatened danger in that quarter, and the unwary governor sent a detachment of his men to turn their swords into sickles. In their absence, a strong body of Kintail men, surprised the enfeebled remnant, and captured their stronghold.

Then the last Earl of Seaforth rallied all the men of Kintail to fight in the Stuart cause, and as the pipes struck up their heart-stirring notes the enthusiasm knew no bounds, and the crags around re-echoed the wild shouts that rose, as one and all started up to dance on the old leaden roof ere they went forth to join the prince. That defiant war-dance was the last merrymaking of these brave lads. A few days later a wail of grief and woe resounded from every hill and valley, for news of battle and of defeat had been brought by the foe, who came to burn the castle (A.D. 1719), and to tell how that gallant band had shed their hearts’ blood for their king on Sherriffmuir.

When we had waited fully a couple of hours, our American friend thought some of his men might be made to work; and, though they presented the lively appearance of inebriated owls, they made a start; and under pressure of startlingly strong language, did succeed in getting across. It was, however, 10 p.m. before we reached Shiel House Inn, which stands at the head of Loch Duich—a blue sea-loch—fringed with golden sea-weed. The house is a pleasant one to halt at. Behind it rise the Seven Sisters of Kintail, a group of grassy, cone-shaped hills, bearing so strong a family likeness as to have earned this name. Next day we had a lovely walk up Mam Ratakan, to see the sun set once more behind the far-distant Cuchullins, and as we turned to descend, a wondrous effect of storm and rainbow swept over the Peaks of Kintail.

About a mile from Sheil House is a subterranean cave, close to the road, into which (if you are curious to see what was probably the dwelling of some old Pict) you may crawl. Once inside, you will find a chamber eight feet high, paved and lined with large flag-stones, and with a stone roof of long slabs, resting on cross rafters, also of stone.

We greatly regretted not having left a day to see the Falls of Glomak, by far the highest in Scotland, and within a very beautiful ride of Glen Shiel. However, we were bound to push onwards to lovely Glen Quoich, where the pleasant weeks slipped by all too quickly. Very charming were the long glorious days on dark Loch Hourn, and pleasant too the social evenings in the sunniest of sunny homes, when the deer-stalkers and fishers returned in the gloaming to tell of their day’s sport, and to dream away happy hours in a paradise of roses and fair women, lulled by that

“Music, which gentlier on the spirit lies
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes,”

music which seemed to glide away on each moonlight ripple, as the tiny wavelets of the blue loch plashed against the trim, well-mown lawn.

The calm bosom of the lake is dotted with little birch-clad islands. One of these, about the centre of the loch, was for many years the home of a bold outlaw, Ewen MacPhee, who, having in an evil hour enlisted, soon found the trammels of barrack life and the study of goose-step altogether unendurable. So he returned to his native wilds in Glengarry, where he was captured as a deserter, but, watching his opportunity, he made one brave bound from off a rock so precipitous that his escort cared not to follow; they fired at him, but missed their aim. Dashing his hand-cuffs against a rock, Ewen was once more a free man, and for many years found a safe haven amongst the hills of Lochiel, where he chased the red deer, as his fathers had done before him. Here he wooed and won a maiden of tender years, and he and his child-bride—she was but fourteen—reared their flocks of wild goats, or wandering by the bonnie burn-side, thence drew silvery fish enough for their simple table. After some years, the fear of the law made Ewen seek a surer refuge for his wife and her little ones; so he took possession of this little island, where, beneath the shadow of the birch-trees, he built a bower for his love, wherein she lived for many long years in safety. The loch supplied them with fish, and the neighbouring hills with game; there, too, they contrived to find pasturage for about sixty wild goats, asking leave of no man. When Mr. Ellice bought Glen Quoich, MacPhee came, as a dutiful vassal, to do homage to his liege, bringing him an offering of goats’-milk cheese, and promising that he would not molest the new laird, provided he was left undisturbed in his island home. The free speech and bold bearing of this wild Highlander won the heart of the new-comer, and Ewen was left in possession of his little kingdom.

One tiny island, at the junction of the river Quoich with the loch, has for many a long year been the burial-place of the neighbourhood. From far-distant hills the people bring their dead, and row across the stream in sunshine or in storm, to lay them in the ancient churchyard where so many bygone generations rest in peace beneath the green turf, amid the murmurous voices of flowing waters, with the echoing hills on every side.

A beautiful drive down Glen Garry brought us to old Invergarry Castle and so to Fort Augustus, still called by the Highlanders Cill Chuimein, in memory of that Cuming the Fair who twelve hundred years ago held the bishopric of the Isles as seventh Bishop of Iona, but known to the Sassenach only by the name of the grey old fort, whose rough walls still bear the names of the Duke of Cumberland’s soldiers, carved in their idle leisure in those grim quarters.

To you and to me those grey walls bring far other memories—such memories as consecrate some few spots of earth, and mark them for evermore as hallowed ground where Heaven’s own angels have paused rejoicing. Nay, more, places which have been to us as the very gate of heaven, whence there have been vouchsafed to us such glimpses of the glorious light within the vail as may well cheer and sustain us along the darkest and dreariest turns that can await us on life’s journey.

Many a time, during the intervals of anxious watching, you and I have looked down from those windows on the wild wintry storms, which, sweeping over the cold grey hills, turned the blue waters of Loch Ness to inky darkness. And again, when the strange chill of early morning told that the long sleepless night was drawing to a close, how often we have stood together watching for the crimson dawn which flushed Glen Garry’s snowy peaks, and faded away to leave them dazzling and glittering in the clear sunlight. Then one (whose mighty strength was slowly ebbing as night after night passed by in pain and weariness, yet to whose lion-like beauty each morning seemed to add a new, refining touch of radiant spirit-light) would look up and whisper the words of an old, old promise, telling how scarlet of a deeper dye might yet be made whiter than that snow, to shine in the light of perfect day.[68]

Day after day slipped by among old memories and old friends, and we were on the eve of returning to the ordinary life of high civilisation, when a letter reached me from a sister far over the seas, suggesting that, having seen the finest hills in Scotland, I should join her for a summer in the Himalayas.

I think that if the post had gone that same morning the idea would have been dismissed at once as utterly preposterous; but as some hours must elapse before the old runner returned, there was no use in answering at once. And so, while Loch Ness patiently sat for its portrait, it gave me so many good reasons for going, and dismissed all difficulties so summarily, and its little wavelets seemed to run to such a jingle of Cuchullins and Koolins, and collies and coolies, that when the old postman did start he was laden with a perfect budget of letters—one to secure a passage in the next P. and O. ship; another to Winsor and Newton for stores of fresh paints and Brobdingnagian sketching-blocks in tin cases; a third to Thornton for such a waterproof as should mock at Indian rains; and a fourth to Macdougal for extra warm raiment, an investment much jeered at by my friends, but one which proved the very comfort of my life in India.

Then away we sailed in the little steamer, taking a farewell look at Castle Urquhart, said to have been once an old holding of the Clan Cumming, and in later days one of the old royal forts of Scotland, besieged by Edward I. in 1303, and which stood many a hard tussle with the English in the succeeding years. For the last three hundred years there has been no mention of it in any chronicle of fight or fray. It is now a picturesque ruin, rising from the loch on a rocky promontory. The Highlanders call these grey ruins Strone Castle, and believe that two mysterious vaulted cells are hollowed in the rock below. The one contains a countless treasure of gold; but in the other a fearful pestilence is sealed up, which, if once released, would stalk forth in irresistible might and depopulate the land, having first slain the rash hand that opened its prison door. So the dread of liberating so dire a scourge has even subdued the covetous craving for gold, and the treasure-chamber remains inviolate.

Thus ended my pleasant six months’ wanderings in the Western Isles. A fortnight later, (a fortnight divided into infinitesimal visits to an incredible number of relations), I started for the Eastern Highlands, and bidding farewell to Britain’s grey shores on a gloomy November day, proceeded in search of sunshine, light, and colour—a quest speedily rewarded with success. The six weeks’ voyage, amid new scenes and pleasant companions, was a delight in itself, and its close was only welcomed because older friends and more bewildering novelties greeted our arrival in the strange Eastern world.

END OF VOL. I.

LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS, BREAD STREET HILL.

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Footnote 1:

Archibald Campbell, Esq., of Blythswood.

Footnote 2:

Mr. Darwin evidently alludes to this circumstance in his Notes on St.
Helena. He says, “I was standing on the edge of a plain, terminated by
a great cliff of about a thousand feet in depth, when, at the distance
of a few yards to windward, I saw some tern struggling against a very
strong breeze, whilst where I stood the air was quite calm.
Approaching close to the brink, where the current seemed to be
deflected upwards from the face of the cliff, I stretched out my arm,
and immediately felt the full force of the wind: an invisible barrier,
two yards in width, separated perfectly calm air from a strong blast.”

Footnote 3:

See the beautiful cast of this gateway in the Kensington Museum.

Footnote 4:

The virtue of the shamrock, as a charm against the stings of snakes
and scorpions, has also been recorded by Pliny, who declares that the
serpent is never seen on trefoil.

Footnote 5:

Annales Turcici, by Leunclavius.

Footnote 6:

In Acts xvi. 16, where we are told of the Philippian damsel possessed
of a spirit of divination, the marginal reading is ‘Spirit of Python.’

Footnote 7:

Engraved by Fabretti, Inscript. Antiq.

Footnote 8:

Maurice’s “History of Hindoostan.”

Footnote 9:

_Gram-Deota._

Footnote 10:

See Chapter V.

Footnote 11:

Quoted in “The Worship of the Serpent,” by the Rev. J. B. Deane.

Footnote 12:

_Ceridwen._ This was the goddess in whose honour our ancestors used to
dress up an image made of corn, and crowned with flowers, which was
carried home triumphantly with the last load of corn; while the
reapers sang the song of harvest-home to the music of pipes and drums.
A trace of this old custom still lingers in some of the northern
counties, where the ‘kern,’ or corn baby, still figures at the
harvest-home.

Footnote 13:

As shown in the following quotations from “Chronicles of the Picts and
Scots.” In the “Irish Chronicle” of the twelfth century the story runs
thus:—

“Nel was carried southward to Egypt
Heroes of dark blue weapons.
The daughter of Forann (Pharaoh) was given
Unto him afterwards.
The beauteous Scotia bare a son to Nel
After his arrival in Egypt.
A hero of a hundred fights,—Gaedhal Glass
Endowed with sovereign righteousness.
The Fein from Faenius (Father of Nel) are called,
Not small their renown.
The Gaedhil from Gaedhuil Glass are called,
The Scots from Scota....”

On the other hand, in the “Chronicle of the Scots,” preserved in the
British Museum, and bearing date A.D. 1412, we read that—

“Ye nation of Scotts began in y^e time of Moses, as is contained in
y^e Bibill; in quhilk time y^e Ethiops warred all Egypt with cruell
wars, for y^e quhitk y^e Egyptians called their ally in help, y^e
Greeks; that was allied then with them, as is now France allied with
us Scots. Therefore y^e King of Athens called Neolms [and?] his son
Gayelglas (after whom our language called is, Gayelige) with a great
power of men into Egypt, and discomfited y^e Ethiops, and abandoned
them aye, to the time that Moses rase; for y^e quhilk victory y^e King
of Egypt gave his only daughter and heir called Scota to this
Gayelglas in marriage, of y^e quhilk Scotia, we after was callit
Scottis, as y^e custom was then, to call nations after women, and not
after men.

“This aforesaid Scota and Gayelglas were maryite together in y^e time
yat y^e bairnes of Israel passyt in y^e Red Sea, and y^e death of
Pharaoh yat governed y^e land of Egypt. And for they saw y^e cruel
plagues that came on Egypt, they decreed to pass with their folk that
they brought of Greece, and many of Egypt, for to seek void lands and
to inhabit them; they went with gret riches and many ships, and so
they came to Spain.”

Footnote 14:

Daily Morning and Evening Prayer.

Footnote 15:

“Twenty-seven Identifications of the English Nation with the Lost
House of Israel,” by Edw. Hine, Glover, and others.

Footnote 16:

Jer. xliii. 6, and Jer. xliv. 14, being the authority quoted.

Footnote 17:

Ledwich, Fosbrook, and Higgins.

Footnote 18:

This connection may seem less far-fetched, when we recollect that
Cæsar states that the Druids of Gaul, whom he asserts to have been
less enlightened than those of Britain, made use of the Greek alphabet
in writing all public and private records.

Footnote 19:

It seems probable that it found a place in Russia, where to this day,
the dove is never eaten. In fact, I am told that a Russian would
consider it an insult to be offered a pigeon pie!

Footnote 20:

The Scandinavians seem to have kept up some communication with the
East in much later days, for in certain sepulchral barrows in the
parish of Sandwick, in Orkney, which are attributed to them, we find
coins of Athelstane, A. D. 925, with those of the contemporary Caliphs
of Bagdad!

Footnote 21:

Fergus, A.D. 536. St. Columba landed 563. Died 597.

Footnote 22:

St. Baithen, _alias_ Comin, died in 601. Comin Ailbe (that is, the
Fair,) died in 668, and was seventh Bishop of Iona. It is consolatory
to the Clan Cummin (_alias_ Comyn), to have produced at least two
saints, at so early a date!

Footnote 23:

9th June, A.D. 597.

Footnote 24:

“We deem it impious to fast on the Lord’s day, or to pray
kneeling.”—TERTULLIAN, _De Coronâ Militis_.

“The Church instructs her nurselings to make their prayers standing on
the Lord’s Day.”—BASIL. _De Spiritu Sancto_.

Justin Martyr says:—“Forasmuch as we ought to remember both our fall
by sin, and the grace of Christ by which we rise again from our fall,
therefore we pray kneeling six days, as a symbol of our fall by sin;
but our not kneeling on the Lord’s Day, is a symbol of the
resurrection, whereby, through the grace of Christ, we are delivered
from our sins and from death, that is mortified thereby.”—Constantine
enacted a law, that on festival days prayers were to be offered by the
congregation, not kneeling, but standing.—Hilary speaks of it, as an
apostolic practice, neither to fast, nor worship kneeling on the
Lord’s Day, or the fifty days between Easter and Pentecost.—Jerome
reckons it among the traditions of the universal Church.—Cassian says
of the Egyptian Churches, that from Saturday night to Sunday night,
and all the days of Pentecost, they neither kneeled nor fasted.

Footnote 25:

Zeus Apomyios or Myiagros, who was worshipped as the Disperser of
flies.

Footnote 26:

In most of these magical cures, the person bearing the healing draught
to the sick was forbidden to _speak_ to any one by the way—or if the
sick man came to drink himself, he was bidden to walk straight away,
and not look back. In the sacred record of one of Elisha’s miracles, a
curious coincidence suggests itself. When the child of the Shunamite
lies dead, and Elisha bids Gehazi take his staff, and lay it on the
face of the child, he expressly commands, “If thou meet any man,
salute him not, and if any salute thee, answer him not again.” Another
coincidence in the same story is the use of the mystic numbers, common
to East and West; Elisha stretches himself _three times_ on the body
of the child, who then awakes, and sneezes _seven times_.

Footnote 27:

The brooch is still in the possession of the Macdougalls of Dunolly.

Footnote 28:

This combination of sacred fish and geese is not peculiar to the
sculptured stones of Scotland. In Montfaucon’s Antiquities, vol. ii.
there is a very curious engraving of an Egyptian (wearing on his head
a triple emblem) embracing a stone altar, to which six geese and two
fishes are bound with cords.

Footnote 29:

Is it to this that we owe the expression that one will go through fire
and water for his friend?

Footnote 30:

Dion Cassius.

Footnote 31:

In case you care for further particulars of the “warp and woof,” which
combine to produce this extraordinary specimen of geological tartan, I
may quote Professor Edward Forbes’ description of the series of
formations shown in the face of the cliff.

First of all comes the crowning mass of huge columnar basalt, red,
brown, and yellow. Below this lies—

1. A thin band of small-rolled pebbles, mingled with fragments of jet.

2. Crumbling blue shales, with fossils, five feet in thickness.

3. A thin band of concretionary limestone.

4. Five feet of blue shale, with Ammonites and large Balemnites.

5. Two bands of hard, grey limestone, weathering yellow, three feet.

6. Dark blue fossiliferous shales, seven feet.

7. Red and yellowish limestone, with fossils, one foot.

8. Blue shales, one foot.

9. Ferruginous sands, with fragments of wood in the state of jet, one
foot.

10. Concretionary limestone, with fossils, one foot.

11. Soft white sands, three feet.

12. Hard fossiliferous sandstones, two feet.

13. Grey sands, with carbonaceous streaks, five feet.

14. Hard shales, with bands of fossil wood, three feet.

15. About fourteen bands of loose slaty and shaly beds, about twelve
feet in thickness, resting on the basalt which lies beneath the waves.

Add to this varied mineral colouring occasional stripes and patches of
vivid emerald and gold, wherever the kindly grass and moss has found a
niche, and you perceive that this natural tartan is about as diverse
as any “coat of many colours” ever woven in human loom.

Footnote 32:

_Otary Falklandica._

Footnote 33:

_Lutra mariana._

Footnote 34:

Giraldus Cambrensis, Archdeacon of St. David’s, born 1146.

Footnote 35:

Sebastian Munster, on Cosmography.

Footnote 36:

Aldrovandus.

Footnote 37:

The yacht was so named.

Footnote 38:

Those who, like ourselves, have, on the occasion of this festival,
heard a Romish priest instructing his flock of sturdy Scotch
peasantry, to bring their candles to him to be blessed (promising that
the burning of lights so sanctified would keep away all infectious
diseases from their homes), may well doubt whether the old
superstition has quite passed away.

Footnote 39:

Ezek. viii. 16.

Footnote 40:

Lev. vi. 13; Lev. x. 1.

Footnote 41:

Exodus xxx. 22 to 38.

Footnote 42:

Such was the teaching of Hermogenes.

Footnote 43:

Orissa, W. W. Hunter.

Footnote 44:

Rabibar.

Footnote 45:

I fear, however, that the majority are really great sepulchral
dolmens!

Footnote 46:

More probably, however, it comes from _panis_, “bread,” being land set
apart for the maintenance of her priests.

Footnote 47:

Job. xxx. 26 to 28.

Footnote 48:

The statistics of births in the principal towns of Scotland, give an
average of one tenth as illegitimate. In certain country parishes the
proportion is very much higher.

Footnote 49:

2 Kings xvii. 33.

Footnote 50:

_Maen-hir._ Stone-high.

Footnote 51:

Mill’s _Hist. of the Crusades_.

Footnote 52:

_The Church of Our Fathers._ By Dr. Daniel Rock.

Footnote 53:

Literally, _Draw-boat_.

Footnote 54:

Built by Lord Dunmore, the late proprietor. Now the property of
Charles Scott, Esq.

Footnote 55: