Chapter VII: Part 7

Serjeant.--Yet it is wonderful how Providence will interfere to preserve people alive, amidst such complicated horrors. I remember a story of a man of the name of Macintosh, who left Braemar, with his wife, to come over this way. A dreadful snow storm came upon them, and, being blinded by the snow-drift, and encumbered in the deep and heavy wreathes, the poor people were separated from each other. The man made his way, with great difficulty, to a whisky bothy, where he arrived much exhausted, and quite inconsolable for the loss of his wife. Being thus saved himself, he procured the assistance of people to help him to look for the corpse of his lost partner. For two whole days they sought in vain; when, just as they were about to abandon their search, till the surface of the ground should become less burdened with snow, they observed a figure coming slowly and wearily down the hill of Gart. This, as it drew nearer, appeared to be a woman; and, on her approaching nearer still, the overjoyed husband discovered that she was his living wife, for whom he had been weeping as dead. She had been wandering for nearly three days, without either food or shelter, amid the mountain snows, but, although she was dreadfully exhausted, she eventually recovered.

Grant.--That was indeed the support of Providence, Archy!

Author.--Most wonderful indeed! Her preservation was little short of a miracle.

Serjeant.--Aye, truly, you may well say that, sir. Nothing but a miracle could have preserved the poor woman from so many perils as she must have encountered in her wanderings,--not to mention those of cold, hunger, and fatigue. It was the hand of Providence, assuredly, that supported her. By what means he worked, we have no opportunity of knowing. But surely it was strange that he could have enabled any human being, and especially a woman, to have come through so much fatigue and suffering alive.

Clifford.--Truly, most miraculous!

Serjeant.--And then, gentlemen, how very strangely--so far as we blind mortals can perceive--are others permitted to perish at the very door, as it were, of help. I think it is now about sixteen years ago--and, if I remember rightly, it was about the Christmas time--that James Stewart, son of the miller of Delnabo, perished, on the very haugh there, just below the House of Inchrory. The poor fellow passed by this place, on his way over to Braemar, one morning that I happened to be here. He stopped a few minutes with me, and had some talk.--"I'm likely to get a fine day for crossing the hill, Archy," said he.--"Well," said I, "I hope you will, and I wish you may. Yet I don't altogether like yon mountaneous heap of white tumbling-looking clouds, that are casting up afar off over the hill-top yonder."--"They dinna look awthegither weel, to be sure," said Jemmy; "but I houp I may be in weel kent land lang or they break."--We parted. The snow came on in a dreadful storm, about mid-day; and I had two or three anxious thoughts about Jemmy Stewart, as the recollection of him was ever and anon brought back to me, during the night, by the fearful whistling of the wind, and the rattling of the hail. Next morning, I, and some of the other men about the place, found a human track, running in a bewildered, irregular, and uncertain line, between the house of Inchrory and the burn yonder, which must be a width of not much more than forty yards. We had not followed this far, when we came to the poor man, whose worn-out feet had made these prints. His walking-stick was standing erect among the snow beside him,--and there lay poor Jemmy Stewart, on his face; his hands were closed, and his head rested on them, just as if he had lain quietly down to sleep. The lads who were with me, stupid gomerills that they were, had a superstitious dread of touching him; but, deeply as I grieved for the poor fellow, I had seen too many dead men in my time to have any such scruples. I accordingly turned him, and found, alas! that he was quite gone. It appeared that he had been suddenly surprised and bewildered by the snow-drift among the hills, and that, having lost all knowledge of his way, he had unconsciously wandered in the very opposite direction to that in which he had intended to go. Becoming more and more confused, as he wandered and wandered, he became at last so entirely stupified by the multiplied terrors of that awful night, that he ultimately yielded to the last drowsiness of death, and so laid himself down to court its fatal repose. Alas! he was unhappily ignorant that he was within a few yards of the friendly house which he had passed on his way upwards on the previous morning, to the reviving shelter of which, the least possible additional exertion might have easily brought him, had he but known in what direction to have made it.

Clifford.--What a sad and fearful story!

Serjeant.--Aye, sir, sad and fearful indeed! Is it not dreadful to think how often the recollection of him crossed my mind during that fatal night, and how little trouble, on my part, would have saved him, had I only known that he was wandering in the snow so near me? Aye, and to think that I should have lain ignorantly all the while in my warm bed, allowing him so cruelly to perish! Willing would I have been to have travelled all night through the drift to have saved poor Jemmy Stewart!

Author.--No one can doubt that, Archy.

Serjeant.--Well, but sir, you see these matters are in the hand of God, and at his wise disposal; and although we, blind moles of the yearth as we are, cannot easily descry why a worthy well-doing young man like Jemmy Stewart should be permitted thus wretchedly to die, without aid, either human or divine, we cannot doubt the justice and wisdom of God's ways, which are inscrutable, and past man's finding out. Well, I did all I could for the poor fellow, for I had his corpse carried down to his afflicted father at Delnabo, and I saw him buried at Dounan, near the Bridge of Livat.

Clifford.--That, indeed, was all you could do for the poor man, Archy; and the manner in which you did that little, together with all the sentiments that you have uttered regarding him, are enough to convince any one that you would not have scrupled to peril your life, if you could have thereby saved that of a fellow-creature, still more that of a friend.

Serjeant.--Thank you, sir, for your good opinion of me; but, as I said before, these matters are in the hand of God: and, whilst he allows the strong to perish, he can, if he so wills it, preserve the weakest. I remember an extraordinary circumstance that happened about eighteen or twenty years ago, which I may mention to you as an example of the truth of this observe of mine. Four women, who had been in the south country at the harvest, were on their return home over these mountains, when they were caught in a storm. The snow came on so thickly upon them, and the wind raised so great a land-drift, that they became bewildered, lost their way, and, after much wandering, they at last got into the ruins of an old bothy, near the side of the river Gairden, which runs, as I may tell ye, beyond those farther hills there to the south. By this time their shoes were worn off. They were without food--without all means of making a fire--and the cold came on so intense during the night, that the poor things were all frozen to death. There they were found in the morning by a party of smugglers, who had been early a-stir after their trade. The whole of the four women were cold and stiff. But the most wonderful, as well as the most touching circumstance of all was, that a female child, of about sixteen months old, was found alive, vainly attempting to draw nourishment from its mother's breast. The poor woman's maternal anxiety had enabled her to use precautions to keep her babe warm and in life, which she had failed to exercise for her own preservation. The child was taken charge of by Donald Shaw of Lagganall, and brought up by him under the name of Kirstock; and she afterwards went to service in Glen Livat, where----But mark me now, gentlemen! Here we are at Caochan-Seirceag, of which you heard so much from me in my Legend of the Clan-Allan Stewarts.

Clifford.--I see there are no trees here now, as you say there were in the days of Sir Patrick Stewart of Clan-Allan.

Grant.--The cliffs are fine though, and the ravine itself romantic. How comes it that some of these rocks are so brilliantly white? They absolutely shine like alabaster amid the dazzling radiance of that setting sun.

Author.--If I answer your question, it will draw me into a disquisition which may bring an attack upon us from Clifford, for prosing about geology to one another.

Grant.--Never mind him; he may shut his ears, if he likes.

Author.--Those brilliant streaks of alabastrine white, are nothing more than incrustations of calcareous stalactites, formed on those rocks of gneiss, by the evaporation of these trickling rills, the water of which holds lime in solution, probably derived from the little aquatic marl snail in the moss above, from which they drain themselves.

Clifford.--I'd advise you to think less of your alabastrine incrustations of calcareous stalactites on gneiss, and more of your necks and limbs, during this steep and somewhat hazardous descent, else you may evaporate like some of those trickling rills you are speaking of. These fellows you told us of, Mr. Serjeant, must have had some little difficulty in carrying the Lady Catherine down and up here. But tell me, I pray you, what is the meaning of the name of Caochan-Seirceag? for I know that all your Gaelic names of places are highly poetical and descriptive.

Serjeant.--The meaning of Caochan-Seirceag, sir, so far as I can make it out, is the rivulet of the beloved maiden.

Clifford.--Poetical in the highest degree!--Why, what scope does it not afford to the poet's mind to fancy the ardour of the passion of the lovers who must have made the romantic bed of this rivulet their trysting place, as well as the beauty of the maiden by whose beloved image the youth thus happily chose to distinguish it--to imagine all the obstacles which the pure stream of their love may have encountered in its course, and of which this vexed and tortured little brook may have formed but too lively a type, until at length it glided into a peaceful channel, as this does in its passage across the green meadow yonder below! What a glorious poetical romance might be suggested by these rocks and rills!--Confound them!--I had nearly tumbled headlong over this slippery stone!--What a fall I should have had!

Grant.--You made a narrow escape there, indeed, Clifford. I would have you to remember, that it would have been quite as bad to have died the victim of romantic enthusiasm, as of dry geological speculation.

Clifford.--I beg your pardon, my good fellow, you are quite wrong there. I at least would have infinitely preferred to have died from thinking of the beloved maiden, than from a confusion of brain occasioned by a mixture of alabastrine incrustations of calcareous stalactites and gneiss and marl snails! But to return to my speculations as to the rivulet of the beloved maiden,--why may it not have had its name from the Lady Catherine Forbes herself?

Serjeant.--As I shall answer, you have hit the very thing, sir. There cannot be a doubt that it was from her that the rill was so called.

Clifford.--See now how lucky it was for you, Mister Archy, that I was not killed by a fall, as I had so nearly been, else had you been deprived of my ingenious elucidation of this most difficult point. But now, thank heaven, we are all safe in the meadow, and I shall have one touch at the trouts yet ere the light goes away entirely.

Author.--I wish you great success, Clifford. Pray do your best, my good fellow, for I know not what commons we may have in this our hostel of Inchrory here.

Clifford.--Aha! you see that my rod and my piscatorial skill are not without their use. Depend upon it, you shan't go without a supper, if I can help it.

As I suspected, we found that our accommodations at Inchrory were rather of the simplest description. But the good people of the house showed every disposition to do the best, for our comfort, that lay in their power. A dozen and a half of large trouts, which Clifford soon brought in, added to some of those provisions which we carried with us, made up the best part of our repast, and we very speedily prepared ourselves for the intellectual enjoyment of the evening.

Clifford.--One would think that the worthy people here, had been forewarned of our story-telling propensities, and that they had made especial provision accordingly for the serjeant's long yarns. Did you ever see a more magnificent pair of wax candles on any table? Why, these would see out all the narratives that ever were told by Sindbad the Sailor.

Grant.--Who could have expected to have met with wax candles, such as these, in an humble place like this, in the midst of these lonely mountains, and so far from the haunts of men? Nay, who could have expected to have met with any candles at all here?

Author.--How happens it, Archy, that they can give us candles so superb as these, in a place like this, where they have so little else to produce, and nothing at all that can in the least degree correspond with them? They are of enormous size--nearly three inches in diameter, I should say. I have seen no such candles as these, except in a Roman Catholic church, or procession.

Serjeant.--Troth, sir, I imagine you have solved the mystery. The truth is, as I told you before, that the great mass of the population of this Highland country consists of Roman Catholics; and it is probable that these candles, which have been originally used for some religious rite, have, from necessity, been this night lighted for your use.

Clifford.--Come, then, serjeant, do you proceed to use the candles as fast as may be. Open your budget, my good man, and give us one of your many legends.

Grant.--You had better allow the serjeant to mix a tumbler of warm stuff in the first place, and whilst he is doing so, he can be considering as to what he had best give us.

Serjeant.--Thank you, sir. I'll just be doing that same. Would you have any objections to another legend of the Clan-Allan Stewarts, gentlemen?

Author.--Certainly not, Archy, if it be only as good as the last you gave us.

Serjeant.--It is not for me to speak in its praise, sir, though I must e'en say that I think it no worse than the last. But it is a hantel longer.

Grant.--The longer the better, if it be good. We have a long night, and great candles before us, so that you may give your tongue its fullest licence.

Serjeant.--Well, gentlemen, it's a good thing to be neither gagged in the mouth, nor stinted in the bicker.

Author.--Depend upon it, Archy, you shall be neither the one nor the other.

Clifford.--Come away, then, serjeant, begin as soon as you please.

Archy then took a long snuff out of the box which I handed to him, during which he seemed to be collecting his ideas, and then he began his narrative. Although I regret that I cannot always give the precise words used by him, I shall endeavour to preserve as faithful an outline of its particulars as I can, and that in language which I hope may be at least as intelligible.

END OF VOLUME FIRST.

NOTES

[1] Accidental, and rarely occurring.

[2] A swing.

[3] Mòr, great, and Beg or Beag, little, are well known Highland cognomina, employed like Dubh, black, Ruadh, red, and Bàn, white, to distinguish different individuals of the same name.

[4] That is, having sixteen or more tynes upon his antlers.

[5] Or Ruadh, red.

[6] Power.