Part 3

The pure English has not only committed a great havoc amongst us, both in the Highlands and Lowlands, but there is also an Englified style accompanying it in many places which is disgusting. Were there an English lady to settle in one of our Highland towns she would soon be surrounded by a goodly number of mimicking parrots. Cockneyism in Cockneydom does very well; I would almost dance with delight to listen to it there; but Cockneyism from the lips of a Scotchman, and far more from a Highlander, I abominate. I have been quite ashamed of some of my own countrymen, who, when they go South, are not satisfied with merely imitating Scotchmen, but they must become regular Cockneys. Ah! the pride of their hearts is contemptible. I would say to a Scotchman—if you wish to show yourself a man, show yourself a Scotchman; and I would say the same to a Highlander—if you also wish to show yourself a man, show yourself a Highlander. Is an Englishman alone to have the privilege and the honour of showing himself a man? Is he and his artificial English to be exalted as a god in every part of the United Kingdom? Must every knee bow and every tongue confess to him? I declare, in the name of my countrymen, that we shall not worship at his shrine; we shall not fall down and worship the golden image which he has set up. As a race, we and our language have hitherto been unjustly and contemptuously treated. But as we have in times past made others feel that we were alive, we shall not only make Scotland, but England also, feel that as a race we are still alive and have a language of our own. So that, from this time henceforward, should one Highlander show his peacock-tail to another by addressing him in any other language but his native Gaelic—considering it more genteel—let him be told at once without any ceremony, _Tha mi ga fhaicinn, tha mi ga fhaicinn, ach ata mi faicinn cluasan fad na h-asail mar an ceudna_; and in like manner, should a Scotchman show his peacock-tail to another by addressing him in any language but that of his native country, let him also be told at once, “I see it, I see it, but I see your long ears also.”

There was an individual at one time called “the Flower o’ Dumblane.” I wonder if there was one in the present time that might be called the Flower of Glasgow, what like would she be. I suppose she would be good-looking, a handsome body, and good features; I don’t say either pretty or beautiful, but good; her expression sweet, amiable, intelligent; her manner easy, graceful, natural; nothing awkward, nothing artificial, but the spontaneous outflow of a kind heart, good taste, and an enlightened mind. But how would the Flower be dressed? Of course many would answer—quite in the fashion. I am not very sure about that; I think quite in the fashion would disfigure the Flower. How then? Just in such a manner as that no person would notice the dress at all, but have the attention fixed upon the Flower, and that nothing could be said about it but that it was befitting. But the Flower of Glasgow would not require to be dumb, she must speak occasionally, but in doing so would not put herself in the front rank of speakers. She would, however, be an acute observer of what was said and done, and should anything deserve a laugh, she would of course give a hearty one to show her white teeth and her kind nature. When, however, any remark was made, or any question put to her, demanding her saying something, she would of course speak out. Bearing in mind that she is a native of Glasgow, that her mother was that before her, a truly Scotch woman, who spoke the broad Scotch, but considerably refined by her intelligence and good taste. Now, what would be her style of speaking? Many would answer, no doubt, “In first-rate English style.” I declare that that again would destroy the beauty of your flower. There must be nothing artificial in a flower. The moment art lays its hand upon it, or even touches it, its beauty fades. No doubt there are many flowers in Glasgow, but many of them are artificial, and differ as much from the real flower as the flowers in their shop windows differ from those in the West End Park. There are many Scotch parents who send their daughters to English boarding-schools to be as perfectly Englified there as possible, but it is the same as if they put their flowers into a hot-house in the month of July. A flower will never show its beauty but in connection with its parent stem; remove it from that and it fades.

In order that a man may be a good member of society, he must be affable and agreeable in his manner; but he can neither be the one nor the other unless he is homely. And how can that man be homely who assumes an Englified style of speaking foreign to his nature. I am aware that in certain circles to say that a man is homely is nothing to his praise, but implies that in their estimation he is awanting in something that would make him a better member of society. He is too homely in his dress, in his style, in his expressions—too homely in his manner as he sits and holds his head, laughs and smiles; in short, he is too homely in everything. But I wonder how they would improve the homely man. I suspect the improvement would be something like the improvement that a number of drunkards would make upon a sober man. They are intoxicated themselves with a vain conceit of a certain standard of refinement, and they must do their best to get him intoxicated also. In order to come up to their standard, he must make a fop of himself—must make a fool of himself by assuming a style of speaking not natural to him. He must sit and hold his head in the fashionable position; if that is not its natural position, he would require a person to sit behind him, and with a hand on each side to keep it in the genteel position. His laughing must be all feigned, not hearty, not natural; his smiling must be the same. In short, in order to come up to their standard, he must make himself a regular play-actor, a hollow hypocrite, a downright mimicking parrot. See that female, how straight she holds her head. Is that its natural position? Does she keep it that way at _hame_? I suspect not—there is evidently an effort. My young woman, I am sorry for the misery you are inflicting upon yourself. That which is generally called refined society is a society for inflicting misery upon their dupes, and upon their race; and the females of that society might be called sisters of cruelty, and not “sisters of mercy.”

Were there a society formed for improving nature as seen in birds and four-footed animals, I suppose all men would look upon such as a society of fools. But a society formed for improving nature as seen in the human species, is more highly thought of than any society on earth. I leave wise men to judge if there is not more of the fool in such a society than they are aware of. And the first attempt that has been made to improve the human species in Scotland is to do away with their native languages, which are the languages of their nature, and which God hath given them to make their feelings and their thoughts known to one another, and to impose upon them a language which is foreign to their nature and not in accordance with the feelings of their hearts. God knows what is better for Highlanders than they know, and their best plan is, if they would not set themselves up in opposition to him, to aid them in obtaining more knowledge of their own language, for certainly they will obtain the knowledge of salvation more readily through the medium of their own than any language they can teach them. There are various ways in which men attempt to improve nature as seen in the human species. I would say leave them, let them alone to be guided by their own natural instincts under the guidance of their parents. The only improvement that ought to be attempted is giving them spiritual instincts—to impart the knowledge of God to them through the medium of their own language—to make them acquainted with God’s method of saving men through Christ—bringing them under the influence of the love of God, giving them the hope of glory—making them to rejoice in God their Saviour, and uniting them to Christ and to one another in love. Then there will indeed be a refined society, with heaven’s stamp upon it—natural, beautiful, glorious: as far above what is called refined society as the heavens are high above the earth.

It is true that the Gaelic is not to be compared as a learned language with the English, being very deficient in those technical terms that are used in the various branches of education. But for ordinary purposes, the Gaelic is not only equal but in many things surpasses the English. The tongue of a Highlander surpasses any that I have listened to for sarcasm, wit, and good humour. For showing the good qualities of one, or the bad qualities of another, it is before the English. For expressing sympathy with a fellow sufferer—for the house of prayer—for the family and the social circle—for expressing the conjugal, the parental, the filial, the brotherly, the friendly feelings and affections of the heart, it is far in advance of the English. For preaching the gospel, for expatiating on the love of God, for holding forth Jesus Christ and him crucified, for catching and keeping the attention, for reaching and searching the conscience, and for applying the subject to the heart, I have always preferred it; and I am convinced that those who know it properly, and are in the habit of using it, have the same feelings. Its very simplicity gives it a power which the English does not possess. Who does not see that the very simplicity of Judah’s pleading with Joseph for his brother Benjamin gave it greater force than had it been delivered by Lord Brougham. Many of the translations which I have seen in Gaelic are far too literal and stiff. A literal translation will never tell on the minds of Highlanders. The best way is to catch the ideas, and to express them as they would do themselves.

What the Gaelic is capable of doing is clearly seen from the _Gaelic Messenger_ and Dr. M’Leod’s Collection, also the _Pilgrim’s Progress_ with notes, and other works of John Bunyan, translated and edited by Dr. M’Gilvray, Glasgow, which has not only come up to the original, but in some things surpasses it. If _Good Words_ in the hands of the son are good, good words in the hands of the father are not behind. Any periodical more expressive, more telling, more touching, and more entertaining than the _Gaelic Messenger_ I have never read; and the principal reason why that periodical had not been more extensively circulated, and why it has ceased to exist, is the great misfortune connected with Highlanders—that the great body of them are not taught to read the Gaelic. This misfortune is their disgrace—the disgrace of parents—the disgrace of noblemen and gentlemen who are native proprietors; yes, and the disgrace of ministers and schoolmasters. Let them all awake and wipe away the disgrace from their native country. It is with blushing shame for my country that I have to declare that never in my younger days did I get a single lesson in the Gaelic in any school that I attended, and I feel the ill effects of it to this day.

There is one thing, however, in which the Gaelic greatly exceeds the English, namely, in lyric poetry. From the very constitution of the two languages the English will not even make a near approach to it. It is capable of a great many contractions that the English is not capable of, _agus_ and _’us_, _’s_. All monosyllables and trisyllables ending with _a_, or _e_, may drop the last. Such words as _saoghalta_ (worldly), _saoghalt_, _saogh’lt_; participles of verbs, such as _riarachadh_ (satisfying), _riarach’_, or _riar’chadh_; the verb to be, _is maith_ (it is good), _’s maith_; _bithidh_ (will, or shall be), _bi’dh_; _bithibh_ (be ye), _bi’bh_; _bi thusa_ (be thou), _bi’-sa_. But what makes the Gaelic so superior to the English, is, not merely that it is capable of more contractions, but as the vowels are more distinctly sounded and the consonants less so, we are satisfied if we get the vowels to rhyme; but that will not do in the English, the consonants must rhyme also. The vowels in the Gaelic have only the two sounds, the short and the long, and are pronounced as in the broad Scotch. We have several sounds which are not in the English at all, sounds formed by the union of two and even three vowels, which are the most melodious in the language. Union of two vowels—_ao_, _gaol_, _saor_ (love, free); _ia_, _grian_, _srian_ (sun, bridle); _ei_, _greine_, _srein_ (the genitive of sun, bridle); _eu_, _speur_, _neul_ (sky, cloud); _ua_, _fuachd_, _shuas_ (cold, up); _ai_, _baigh_, _traigh_ (kindness, seashore); _io_, _fior_, _dion_ (true, protection); _eo cleoc reota_, (a cloak frozen). The union of three vowels, the sweetest sounds in the language—_aoi_, _aoibhneas_ (joy); _uai_, _buaidh_ (victory). Besides these, there are many words where _eu_ may be changed into _ia_, as _feur_, _geur_, _neul_ (grass, sharp, cloud), _fiar_, _giar_, _nial_. The former is the standard Gaelic, but the latter is more common in the west and north.

To translate lyric poetry from English into Gaelic is comparatively easy, but to translate it into English is not only more difficult, but we have many pieces which cannot be translated at all so as to rhyme. Let any person compare our metrical version of the Psalms of David with the English, and he cannot but see how superior it is; and even the paraphrases, although originally composed in English, the Gaelic not only comes up to it, but actually surpasses it in many places. In the English, in common metre, the last syllable of the second and fourth line only rhyme, whereas frequently in the Gaelic the last syllable of the first, and the fourth of the second rhyme.

“C’arson a struidheas sibh ’ur maoin Air nithibh faoin nach biadh; ’S a chailleas sibh ’ur saoth’ir gach la, Mu ni nach sasuich miann?”

How smoothly and sweetly does that rhyme flow compared with the English. I have seen a book called the _Highland Bards_, translated by a great scholar, and although done as well as possible in a translation, yet every one who knows Gaelic cannot fail to see how far short it comes of the strength and beauty of the original. No man, however great, can do an impossibility. I have also seen translations of Dugald Buchanan’s Poems, and these by men who were greater scholars than himself; and on looking at them, I saw as great a change between them and the original as if I had seen Dugald himself when in his prime, and again at seventy, when it would be all I could do to recognise his features, but O how changed! Taking his poem on the day of judgment, I defy the English language to produce its equal as a piece of lyric poetry. In the language there is scarcely a single word coined from another language, perhaps a few from the broad Scotch that came to be naturalized—all the language of his native country, extraordinary for its simplicity and expressiveness. The rhyme of that poem is smooth, it is perfect. I have attempted, or should rather say, I have endeavoured to improve what others attempted, and the best I could make of some of the verses I give in the following:—

My worldly thoughts, O God inspire, And touch my lyre that it may play, That I may put in solemn rhyme Thy most sublime and awful day.

O! listen all ye sons of men, This world’s last end is come to pass, Start all ye dead to life again, The great Amen has come at last.

The sun, great majesty of lights, To his great brightness shall succumb, The shining radiance of his face, His light with haste shall overcome.

Was it enough that nature’s sun Aghast did shun the deed to see, Why did not the creation die When Christ expired upon the tree?

These are equally strong, and rhyme well, but where is the melody compared with the Gaelic, and it is most extraordinary that I cannot sing them without feeling that I am puffed up with the language, whereas in the Gaelic I have no such feelings. The English will never come up to the following, sublime in their simplicity:—

Mu mheadhon oidhch’ ’nuair bhios an saogh’l, Air aomadh thairis ann an suain; Grad dhuisgear suas an cinne daoin, Le glaodh na trompaid ’s airde fuaim.

Look at the rhyme how smooth and agreeable to the ear—the language how simple and artless, the scene presented how solemn. We can scarcely conceive of any thing more so, than the world having reclined over in sleep’s soft repose, and then suddenly to be awakened with the trumpet’s loudest sound.

The English language completely fails in giving a proper translation; being an artificial language, it disfigures almost every thing it handles.

When the whole world in midnight’s lull, In silent slumbering sleep is found, Their rest shall quickly be disturb’d By the last trumpet’s awful sound.

The following are sublime:—

Tha’m bogha frois muo’n cuairt d’a cheann; Mar thuil nan gleann tha fuaim a ghuth, Mar dhealanaich tha sealla ’shul, A sputadh as na neulaibh tiugh.

Not a single expression but what a herd lad, who was never at school, could use, and yet how sublime. Put it into the hands of the mistress of arts, and see how it will appear.

The rainbow bright surrounds his head, Like flood of glens his voice divine, Like lightning flashes ’mid dark clouds The astounding glances of his eyes.

There it is pretty strong, but where is the melody so agreeable to the ear? The English will never make it rhyme without divesting it of its sublimity.

Tha mile tairneanach ’na laimh A chum a naimhdean sgrios a’m feirg, ’S fonna-chrith orr gu dol an greim, Mar choin air eill ri am na seilg.

Try that again.

A thousand thunders in his hand At his command his foes to crush, Shivering, eager to be engaged Like hounds restrained by the leash.

This is not so far amiss, only “crush” and “leash” as it regards the vowels, do not rhyme. Look at the Gaelic—how simple; every word forged and hammered on the anvil of a Highlander’s method of making his thoughts known. Consider the sublimity of the passage. Dugald was not a classical, but one of nature’s scholars, who had learned his lessons well, and I am certain that in learning them he was not puffed up as they are, but rather humbled. Thunder, one of the most awful agents conceivable. When the thunder roars the earth keeps silence. A thunder held in the hand—how sublime? A thousand thunders, a thousand times more so. How are these thunders held? Like hounds restrained by the leash. Anything more expressive could not come from the lips of man. A hound at first sight of the game would almost choke himself at the first spring, if restrained. Are these things so; and how perilous the condition of those who are the enemies of the Great Judge? The air to which that poem is sung is also most appropriate; so that in singing it, one never thinks either of the language or the melody, any farther than that they are expressive; but has his mind wholly occupied with the sublime, the awful, and the beautiful imagery presented before it. I have heard that poem sung to a crowded audience, and I have never listened to anything spoken or sung that had a greater effect. Every eye fixed; all attention; awe, anxiety, concern depicted on every countenance. And I can tell Ministers of the Gospel all over the Highlands, that could they get two or three to sing that poem properly to their congregations, that it would have a far greater effect than most of their sermons. And I can tell them, moreover, that that poem sung once had a more blessed effect than all my sermons for a whole twelvemonth.

There are three poems of M’Gregors composed to suit the air of an old song, called “_Gaoir nam ban Muileach_” (The wail of the Mull women). There are seven lines in the stanza, and the last is repeated twice. In singing it it resembles the regular flow of a torrent, but when it reaches the sixth line it comes to a climax as if the torrent had become a beautiful waterfall. Or to use another simile. The first part of it resembles the Atlantic waves as they roll majestically to the shore, rolling and rolling along with a good deal of monotony till at length they reach the climax, when they break forth with a tremendous crash like rolling thunder. Were there a few individuals who could sing it together till they reached the sixth line, and then the whole to unite with them, there would be such singing as I have seldom listened to.

Thaom e spiorad neo-ascaoin Air a naoimh ’us air ’abstoil, ’S rinn iad saighdearachd ghasda, Mine, macanta ’n gaisge; Cha do phill iad le masladh, Ach troimh Chriosd a thug neart dhoibh, Chuir iad cath gus ’n do chaisg iad an namhaid. Chuir iad cath, &c.

Perhaps some of my countrymen do not know what _neo-ascaoin_ means; _caoin_ means kind; _ascaoin_, unkind; _neo-ascaoin_, the reverse, that is great kindness. I will endeavour to give a translation as near as possible.

He poured his spirit most kindly On his saints and apostles, Who acted most soldierly, Meekly and lowly in heroism, Not turning disgracefully, But through Christ that strengthened them They fought till they routed the enemy.

Although all the masons in the world were to go on hammering at the English for a century, they could not make it rhyme like the Gaelic in this verse. I have composed a considerable number of poems. I suppose, when published together, they will form the largest collection in the language. I attempted to translate two or three of them, but found it impossible to do so by strictly following the rules of English versification. I attempted to translate more, but found I could not translate one verse to my satisfaction, and I wish that scholars would understand this—that it is utterly impossible to give them anything like a correct idea of our poetry, unless we are allowed to follow the Gaelic rules of versification, and even with that licence we cannot come up to it. I saw in a periodical a review of the lyric poetry of Wales, which showed that it was impossible to give a proper expression of it in an English translation. The same is equally true of the Gaelic. The strict rules to which he is tied down who would attempt to compose English verse prevent him from soaring like the eagle, and his productions must be comparatively tame, and awanting in energy.

Singing has a mighty power over the human mind, which the church to a great extent has neglected, and a power which she never wields aright but when in a revived state. I once went into a house; but the moment I entered, the youngsters, some of them men and women, all fled. “See,” said the mother, (a pious woman), “how they have all gone.” “Yes,” I said, “but we’ll soon bring them back,” and so commenced to sing a poem, not to the tunes of Martyrdom or Oldham (these would not bring them back), but to the tune, “Whistle o’er the lave o’t,” and they all returned immediately.